


A Slow Burn

by TheRealKateKane



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Biting, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Slow Romance, Smut, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2020-07-09 03:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19881091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealKateKane/pseuds/TheRealKateKane
Summary: There was something strange between them. A closeness that should not be there. They had scarcely known one another a few weeks, yet there was an inexplicable familiarity to their interactions, the natural comfort of the well-acquainted. There was a trust that should take time to build, an intimacy that was usually born from shared memories, experiences, vulnerabilities. They had not had the time to develop such a bond, yet there it was.





	1. The Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hiiii. So I intend for this to roughly follow the events of Book II, diverging to explore some of the ideas more, the emotional consequences of some of the events (because gahdamn Book II is dark,) and the eventual romance/relationship between Kiran and Fjorm. Oh, and to give Kiran some backstory and characterization. 
> 
> Eventually, it'll get smutty, and when it does I will add some more tags.
> 
> The title is a pun absolutely intended. I make no apologies.

There was something disquieting about winter.

Perhaps it was the unnaturalness of the it. It changed the familiar landscape into a monochromatic vista of white and grey, where the sky blended seamlessly into the land leaving no visible horizon. The sun was a rare sight, hidden behind snow-fat clouds. The days were short; the darkness of night quick to chase away whatever light managed to penetrate the clouds. And it was still, deathly still and quiet. Animals hibernated or hid in winter burrows, farmers were chased from their fields, the birds silenced, the normal sounds of life absent. Snow seemed to muffle what little sound there was. It was what death must be like, silent and colorless and motionless.

There was a reason that armies did not march in winter, not usually anyway. Food could not be scavenged from the surrounding land and carrying enough food and supplies for each soldier was an impossibility compounded by the harsh conditions. Snow impeded wagons, horses, soldiers, making movement slow and arduous. More soldiers would be lost to exposure and starvation than to battle.

A battlefield after the fighting had ceased only amplified the deathly stillness of winter. Blood froze bright red, splatters of crimson against white. Broken weapons and shattered shields littered the landscape, some half buried, some still clutched in dead, frozen hands. Pennants planted in the snow were limp, unruffled by wind. Bodies froze to ice where they fell. Without the heat to decompose the bodies, without the swarms of vultures and insects to pick at the flesh, the dead would remain frozen somewhere between life and death, unable to return to the earth until the snow melted and spring returned.

If winter was death, then a winter battlefield was damnation.

It was as if the battle had frozen in time. The horror of violence and death captured and preserved by the icy stillness. It was as if the battle could have taken place decades ago or just mere moments.

But Kiran knew that only a few hours had passed since the armies that had fought so bitterly over this land had abandoned it. Maybe a day at most. Only a faint layer of fresh snow had fallen, not enough to obscure the frozen blood and bodies. Yet somehow it seemed impossible that the loneliness of the place was recent. It seemed almost a sacrilege that her troops defiled the stillness by slowly navigating through the dead, searching for survivors.

It was unlikely they would find any, she knew. If any survived the battle and did not retreat with their respective armies, they would have sought shelter, somewhere to shield them from the cold.

“Summoner?”

Kiran grunted an acknowledgement before shifting her attention from the landscape to the commander of the Order of Heroes. Anna appeared young for a commander, but at least she was older than the prince and princess of Askr that also made up their company. And she had proven herself a competent leader, even if Kiran found her a tad officious. At her approach, Feh turned her head almost a full 180 degrees to blink at the intruder of their solitude. She was remarkably territorial, even for an owl, and Kiran reached up to scratch the back of her neck reassuringly before turning fully to face the commander. “What is it?”

“Light is coming from Breidablik.” Her cheeks and nose were red with cold, almost as red as her hair. She pointed a gloved hand at the relic that hung from Kiran’s belt. She looked down at the warm glow that was steadily intensifying, radiating from the relic. When Anna had first given it to her, she had described it as a bow, but it did not resemble any bow she had ever seen. She unhooked it from her belt and held it, army fully extended as if she were aiming it in front of her. Slowly, she scanned the terrain with the relic, its light intensifying as it grew closer to the direction of its target. “It’s pointing the way over there…” A beam of pale-yellow light narrowed, focusing on a drift of snow just northeast of their position.

Sharena and Alfonse, the princess and prince, were closer and saw the light cast by Breidablik and knew instantly what it meant. Eagerly, they followed the light and beat Kiran and Anna to the drift. “Someone’s collapsed! It’s a woman!” Sharena shouted, and the loudness of her voice was a blasphemy in the silence.

Trudging through the snow was exhausting. It was only calf-deep for Kiran, but she was taller than most. Anna was shorter and lagged behind, struggling against the heavy snow.

“It seems her lance is resonating with the divine weapon.” The prince added, once she was close enough that he did not have to shout. Sharena had disappeared under the crest of the snow drift, presumably kneeling or crouching. She said something that Kiran could not quite hear, but Alfonse’s reply was clear. “I don’t know… but I do know we can’t just leave her here.”

Feh gave a rumbling hoot from low in her chest, as if annoyed, and spread her wings, taking off from Kiran’s shoulder. She circled the snow drift twice before landing on the low branch of a nearby tree. Finally, Kiran summited the snowdrift. Below her, the young princess knelt in the snow beside Breidablik’s target. The injured woman was small, slight, but fully grown into adulthood. So many of these worlds were full of small-statured, impossibly tiny peoples and races; it made Kiran wonder where she, a comparative giant, came from.

The woman stirred with a whimper, and her eyes opened with an enormous effort, just barely halfway as if her eyelids were impossibly heavy. It was enough for Kiran to see the bright blue of her eyes, the blue of a mountain lake filled with melted snow. Silent words died on her lips as her eyes shut, and she was again unconscious. Kiran noticed the blossom of dried brown blood caking her armor at the chest and shoulder.

Beside her, just out of reach of her fingertips, lay a lance. It was of grand design, well-balanced, but probably heavy for someone so small. It must be a family heirloom, probably past down across countless generations. Priceless and of a quality that only powerful magic could forge. Somehow, she knew that this was almost certainly the second daughter of this defeated ice kingdom, the one mentioned in her dream, but she said nothing to her comrades. Feh fluttered to her shoulder and followed her gaze, studying the girl critically.

Anna finally made it to the drift, panting with the effort, and looked down at what Breidablik had led them to. “Let’s take her back to base.”

Sharena’s mouth was a grim line as she nodded, concern for the wounded woman robbing her of her usual cheerfulness. Kiran climbed down from her perch and knelt next to her. “What are you doing, Kiran?” She asked, brow knitting together in confusion.

The summoner blinked as if the answer was obvious. “I am going to carry her. Unless one of you thinks they can manage?” All strong, able-bodied warriors, the Askrans could easily manage to carry the injured woman between them, or they could allow the taller, broader summoner to do it alone. When no one replied, she carefully slipped one arm under the woman’s knees and another under her shoulders. She was very gentle as she lifted the small woman and climbed to her feet. She would have to move slowly so she did not cause further harm or aggravate her wound or other injuries unseen. “One of you grab the spear?”

Sharena, already carrying her own lance, picked it up. “I have it. Phew. That’s heavy.”

“I’ll signal the rest of us to return to camp.” Prince Alfonse jogged off awkwardly through the snow to find the rest of their party. They were a far journey from their base, but they had ridden most of the way on the backs of wyverns and Pegasuses. It would be quicker to cut through the forest to return to the meadow where they had left the mounts. With one princess in her arms and trailed by another, the summoner began the long trek towards camp.

* * *

The first thing she noticed was the owl. It was quite unlike any owl she had seen. Its feathers were rust and red-brown, mottled with black-ringed white spots like that of a snow leopard. The beak was a sharp, down-turned hook and eyes coal black, without pupil, and narrowed suspiciously at her. He, or she, was also very small, half the size of a common owl, a quarter of the size of a snow owl, and the size of a newly-hatched great grey owl. Even his hoot was shorter as if cut off before it could finish, and surprisingly deep for such a little creature. The latter she learned when he canted his head at her, black eyes searching hers.

The hoot was meant to alert his perch, which was only then that Fjorm noticed that the owl rested on the shoulder of a person. A person who carried her like a child, one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, her head carefully supported by a well-muscled upper arm. She could not see the face of the one who carried her for it was obscured by a hood pulled low over the eyes and casting everything but the mouth in shadow. The hood itself was beautiful, dark blue and trimmed in embroidered in gold thread that created a knotted pattern around the edges.

Panic strangled her. They had her now. She tried to remember her last fleeting moments of consciousness.

She remembered. Surtr had mocked her as she struggled to her feet and pulled Leiptr in front of her, maintaining a defensive stance that was futile. The legendary lance was easily batted away, and she had screamed as the flame king’s axe struck through her armor at the shoulder, easily rending leather and mail.

“Feel that pain, child of ice. Feel it… and tell me what you desire most.” She cried out again as he twisted the blade, further shredding the muscle and flesh. She had not known such pain was possible. But the sadism of the act paled in comparison with the cruelty of his words. “Should I scar your face with flame? Or should I burn your fingers to ash, one by one… As I did your mother?”

Falling to her knees, her vision faded. He had pulled the blade of his axe from her shoulder, but she still felt it. Her arm was useless and hung limp at her side. She had failed. Again. He was right, of course, she had failed to protect her mother when he burnt her to ash bit by bit. She had failed to even land a blow or chip his armor. She had sworn to avenge her mother, her people, but had failed. She was not worthy of the title of princess. A sob escaped her as if it had been ripped from her throat. Tears clouded her dimming vision. Death was a mercy after her failure.

Surtr’s laughter crackled like his flames. “That’s the fate of the weak—to be trampled. So, it goes…” He lifted her chin with one of his massive fingers and scoffed. He was so close that she could smell the smoke and soot that permeated his armor, feel the scalding heat the seemed to radiate from him. “Strike at me! Show me your last, lingering flame before it flickers out!”

She had struggled to stand, holding her lance with only one hand was almost impossible. But at least she could die with some amount of dignity, even if she was a failure, even if she was weak. She could be struck down standing instead of on her knees. “Surtr! I swear… that I… You will never…” Standing had been a mistake, and nausea had overwhelmed her before everything had gone dark.

And now they had captured her. Why could they not have left her to die? Or better yet, simply killed her. The agony of grief swiftly vied for dominance with the panic, and the swell of tears was thick in her throat. So long as she had breath, she would fight, if for no other reason then to force them to kill her. Her lance…

Her hand felt impossibly heavy as she lifted it from her chest, fumbling for Leiptr. Where was it? Uselessly, her arm flopped limp to hang next to her body. She could not fight, but she had to. She could not fail again, not without trying. She—

“Stop.” The hooded figure commanded sternly and halted. Redistributing Fjorm’s weight in her arms, she freed a hand to lift the useless arm and replace it on her chest. The voice was that of a woman and laden with disapproval. “You will injure yourself further.”

As if it mattered, Fjorm wanted to say but her tongue was too dry to manage words. Unable to resist, her eyes fluttered shut. She could not even fight her exhaustion, and she fell asleep to the rhythmic crunch of snow under heavy footfalls and the sting of snowflakes melting on her cheeks and brow.

When she next awoke, neither the owl nor the robed figure were to be seen. They had been replaced by a woman who appeared younger than Fjorm herself. She knelt over her, their faces very close together, her hands weaving a pattern over the shoulder that had born the jagged edge of Surtr’s axe.

A wave of nausea overwhelmed her as she remembered how it had punched through mail of her hauberk and the plate of her cuirass, the agony as it impaled her until it hit the blade of her scapula. It had not been a killing wound, nor had he intended it to be. His intention was pain, agony and that had been made clear when had twisted it to pull the edges of her flesh apart, to widen the gash.

The woman seemed to sense her impending sickness and quickly halted her actions and reached for a nearby basin. She lifted it to Fjorm’s lips just in time for her to vomit. Tenderly, she reached under Fjorm’s head and supported it while her reeling stomach emptied itself of bile. When she had finished, she settled her head gently back to the pallet on which Fjorm noticed she had been placed. The woman seemed unperturbed and set aside the basin, her hands returning with a damp cloth which she used to wipe her brow and then her mouth. “You are safe.” The young woman claimed in a voice that was more song than spoken word.

Fjorm closed her eyes, reopened them to try to survey her surroundings. It was a simple room, with dark stone walls and a wooden floor. The pallet on which she lay had been placed next to a fireplace that smoldered and flickered with the occasional flame. At her feet and against the wall was a simple wooden-framed bed and next to it a wooden stand. In the middle of the room, behind the woman, was a round table and a couple chairs. Beyond that she could not see without turning her head, which was too painful. Her surroundings were completely foreign. Nothing at all like the wooden houses and buildings of her kingdom, nothing like polished white marble of the castle she called home.

She opened her mouth to speak, to ask where she was, but all that escaped her was a dry rasp. “Shhh.” The woman soothed and smoothed Fjorm’s bangs from her brow. “It is fortunate the Summoner found you when she did, or else I fear not even my healing could have saved you. At least not without permanent damage.” The woman lifted her head with one hand and lifted an earthenware mug to her lips with water for her to drink. “My name is Sakura, and I am the Summoner’s chief healer.”

The water was cool and soothing to her dry, cracked lips. It seemed to her that weeks must have passed since she last drank. Fjorm forced herself to drink slowly, not wanting the shock of cold water to make her sick again. When the mug was empty, Sakura lowered her head back down again. “If your stomach settles, and you manage to keep that water down, you may have more.”

She was grateful for Sakura’s introduction and explanation, but it only left her with more questions. Who was the Summoner? Where were they? Why had she been brought here? If they were not of Surtr’s forces, from where did they hail? It seemed that there was nowhere in the world that the flames of his army had not burned, but it was clear that they were not allied with him. Nor were they of her own people, of that she was certain.

There were many questions, but when she opened her mouth all she could manage to whisper was, “Fjorm.”

Sakura smiled broadly, affectionately and despite her pain and confusion, Fjorm returned the smile weakly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Fjorm. It is best that you rest while I work on mending your shoulder. I do not believe it is necessary to tell you that the wound was quite severe.”

As if by her command, Fjorm’s eyelids grew increasingly heavy until they shut. Curiosity and uncertainty still gnawed on the corners of her mind, but they were swiftly chased away by the darkness of sleep.

* * *

The time passed oddly. Dreams were blurred, indistinguishable from reality. Voices were heard but not understood. There was no one there yet she was not alone, never alone. It was if someone stood just barely in sight of her peripheral vision, yet when she turned to face them, no one was there. Sometimes, she dreamed of flames.

Wakefulness was evasive. It came to her in hazy snatches of time. Cool water soothing the rawness of her throat. Concerned mumbling, separate voices. A cloth wiping her face, her neck, her hands. Shivering and a blanket tucked around her shoulders. Screaming as Surtr’s flames found her again. A kind hand on her cheek. Moments, fragments without context. Each time, Fjorm clung to consciousness, only for it to slip away, eluding her grasp. The pull of slumber was too strong.

When she woke again, truly awoke, she did not know if she had slept for an hour or three weeks. Sakura was gone, replaced by a young woman with long blond hair and wide green eyes who knelt at her side. She grinned when she saw Fjorm’s eyes scanning her face. “You’re awake! Now, that’s a relief. Here! Have some water.” In the same manner as Sakura had, she lifted her head and a cup of water to her lips simultaneously.

Fjorm drank, pulled her head back to signal that she was finished. It was still hard to keep her eyes open, but at least the world was less hazy, less fuzzy than it had been the last time she was awake. “Thank you.” She whispered, her head resting on the soft pallet again. “Were you the one who saved me?” She forced her eyes open, willing herself to stay awake. She needed answers.

“Oh! No!” She laughed lightly as if amused by the absurdity of the question and set the cup on the floor beside her. “I am Sharena, Princess of Askr. Only one person in our army could find you past out in the snow… Kiran.” She glanced over her shoulder and noticed the two figures that had emerged from the shadows of the far side of the room.

The first was a young man, scarcely an adult but older than the girl. The lack of dark shadowing on his smooth cheeks and chin told her that not only did he not shave, he never needed to. The shape of his face and eyes were similar enough to Sharena’s that they could be siblings, but his hair was almost black. Yet when he bowed his head in greeting and smiled at her, she was certain they were brother and sister.

The second person was taller and lacked the lankiness of youth. Solidly built, they carried themselves with the confidence and ease of someone much older than the siblings. But their face was obscured by the hood of their robes, still pulled low over their face. She recognized the robes, the hood of the one who had carried her.

“Then you have my sincere gratitude, Kiran.” She managed to say and solemnly nodded at the hooded woman who only canted her head slightly in response. “My name is Fjorm. I am…” She swallowed hard, her eyes closing again but this time against the sting of tears. “I was a princess of the kingdom of Nifl.”

Sharena rested a hand on her uninjured shoulder gently, as if to reassure her. “That must be on the other side of the gate near where we found you, but you are safe now, in Askr. Nifl is…” Her face fell.

“My homeland is in flames.” Fjorm finished for her. “It has been burned by the Fiery Hordes of Múspell.”

Sharena quickly glanced behind her, and the young man looked up at the hooded woman they called Kiran. “Fiery Hordes? Then, they—”

“They must be the ones attack our borders now, Alfonse!” She finished for him. She stood and crossed the space between them, took his hand in both of her own. “We must meet them before our kingdom suffers the same fate.”

Alfonse nodded his agreement and stepped closer to the pallet on which Fjorm lay. “I am sorry for what your kingdom has suffered, Princess Fjorm. But you have the gratitude of Askr for this information. We must leave now to ride and face these hordes. You are welcome here for as long as necessary; you should rest for now.”

Experimentally, Fjorm pushed herself onto her elbows, lifting her upper body in a pitiful attempt to sit up. Surprisingly, there was only a hiss of pain in her shoulder, as if her wound were several weeks old. Still painful, but tolerable. “I cannot rest. You must let me come with you. Please.” There was no way she was lying on this bedroll while others faced Surtr. He was her responsibility, and she would not repay the kindness of these strangers by letting them burn in her place.

Alfonse glimpsed over at Kiran, as if for permission, but she only shook her head. Her vision blurred again, and her cheeks burned. “I watched as my mother was burned, killed.” Her throat ached with every word as she attempted to hold back the tears. “I can’t let the same thing happen to your kingdom. Please, whatever strength I have… let me lend it to you.”

The hooded woman finally stepped into the light. “Do not be foolish. In your state, you would be a liability rather than an asset.” Her voice was neutral, flat. It was not unkind, but it was matter-of-fact and final. She turned and headed for the door.

“Please!” Her voice broke on the word, and she mentally cursed herself for her shameful weakness. Crying and begging as if she were not a princess, but a child.

Sharena worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Kiran, can’t—”

“No.”

The prince placed a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Surely there would be no harm if she were to accompany us? We need any aid we can get.” He insisted.

Turning abruptly, the woman’s voice was low. “You would risk the lives of your troops because you feel sorry for her?” She looked between the prince and princess with unseen eyes and pointed at Fjorm. Despite the quiet evenness of her words, she could feel the force of them like the rising swell of an angry blizzard heading towards her. “She is wounded. What happens when she inevitably falls in the battle? I will not risk your lives or the lives of any of our people or her life because of her guilt.”

Without another word, Kiran left, the door clattering shut behind her. Fjorm let herself fall back on the pallet. Silent tears streaked her face. She had not thought it was possible to despise someone without ever seeing their face.

* * *

“These are children playing at war.” Kiran fumed, ripping the hood of her robes from her face. She sat down heavily on the narrow, rickety wooden-framed bed, and it creaked in protest. The prince and princess of Askr had grown on her, and over time, she had become quite fond of them. But they were still so young. Despite all the battles and challenges they had already faced, it was clear to anyone with eyes they were not yet ready to rule or lead.

Corrin clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth and shook her head, waves of long silver falling in her face. She had that faint, indulgent smile she wore whenever Kiran was impatient or irritated. It only agitated her further. “They _are_ children.” The dragon princess sat next to her and rubbed her back in long strokes, but Kiran shrugged her hand away. Not discouraged, she put her hand on her back again but did not rub.

“They are children with power.” Kiran said. “The power to order men and women to their deaths.” She planted her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands, exhausted. “They’re too impulsive.” Her voice was muffled by her hands. She felt Corrin’s slender fingers tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear, felt the warmth of her slender body pressed against her side.

The dragon princess was the only one she let this close to her. She was far from one of the first heroes to join the Order since Kiran had been conscripted, but she had been one of the few she bonded with, trusted fully. Perhaps because their histories were so similar. Corrin remembered nothing before her life with the Nohrians, and Kiran remembered nothing before the moment she was summoned by Anna and Breidablik. They were also of similar age, when many of the Heroes she summoned were so young. Corrin also possessed a patience and warmth that Kiran sometimes lacked.

“Show me someone their age that isn’t.” Corrin reasoned.

“They do not have the luxury for it.” Kiran argued. “They think it’s perfectly fine to take the princess of Nifl into battle with us.” She scoffed and raised her face from her hands to look at the other woman. “A girl so weak I doubt she could lift an arrow, let alone a spear or lance. Because they feel sorry for her.”

“And you do not?”

“What?”

“Feel sorry for her?”

“Of course, I do!” Kiran stood abruptly and paced the length of the room. As Summoner, she was afforded rather large and sumptuous accommodations. Not only did she not have to share a room, but it was large enough for not only a bed and desk, but a small wooden table with two chairs that she rarely sat it. On it was a bottle of wine, red. She paced the length of the room again before stopping at the table and uncorking the bottle with her teeth.

“I am not unfeeling. Gods only knows what that girl suffered. Yet I am painted as callous because I do not—cannot—allow my feelings to affect my judgment.” She filled two cups halfway and rejoined Corrin on the bed, offering her one of the cups which she accepted.

“Sakura said she healed unexpectedly well.” Sakura was Corrin’s youngest sister and a masterful healer. It was not surprising that if anyone could coax the ice princess back from the brink of death it would be her. She paused and sipped her wine. “But she cannot heal her mind. Sakura said she suffered from violent nightmares and that she often screamed in her sleep. It is no wonder Alfonse and Sharena feel bad for her.” She did not have to point out that Kiran knew what it was like to be tortured in her sleep by unseen and unknown terrors.

The summoner took a long sip of wine. It was dry and tangy, warming her throat as she swallowed. She hated that Corrin knew exactly what to say to her, yet at the same time, she was grateful.

“They are not wrong for feeling bad for the girl.” She huffed, feeling a bit of her agitation ebb away. “They are wrong for making a decision based on that pity.” She sighed and leaned forward, studying the pattern of the grain of wood floors beneath her feet. “I just do not want harm to come to them. Or any of our people. Not if we can prevent it.” Corrin smiled triumphantly at her softening, and the she shoved her shoulder affectionately, unable to refrain from smiling back. “Shut up.”

Corrin wrapped her arms around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “You’re a gem, Summoner. Even if you do not want anyone to know it.”


	2. Princess of Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many of the heroes she had summoned possessed grief, their own stories of loss and trauma. All had known war, the shriek and groan of the battlefield. They had been abused, betrayed, oppressed, and wounded. If heroes were forged by hardship, they were tempered by grief and sharpened by survival.

Many hours later, Kiran rapped softly at the door to announce her presence but did not wait for an answer before opening it. The healer twisted to face her, finger pressed to her lips.

“How is she?” Kiran asked softly, easing the heavy wooden door shut quietly behind her. She looked past the healer to the impossibly tiny figure curled under a light blanket on the pallet in front of the hearth. Curled in on herself, almost in a fetal position, made her appear even smaller. But despite her stature, she could tell that when healthy, she was well-muscled, athletic even. She had the build of an acrobat. But wounded and narrowly avoiding death or maiming, she just looked fragile, as if a strong breeze might destroy her.

Some color had returned to her cheeks, and her breathing was no longer rapid and shallow. Which was a positive sign. She was a pretty girl. Woman, Kiran mentally corrected. Most certainly younger than herself, but no child. She had a mop of wheat blond hair that was just long enough to fall in her eyes and cover the tops of her ears, a style she wondered if was common among her people. In sleep, her delicate features were innocent: round face, small nose, thin mouth. In her mind, she looked very much like what she imagined the little godlets of the myths and stories she heard told by other Heroes to be.

“She rests.” Sakura told her once Kiran had knelt beside her at the woman’s side. “Her physical wounds will heal.” The healer tenderly stroked her patient’s brow. “But her mind is plagued, even in sleep. I wish there was more I could do.”

Weariness had torn the edges of Sakura’s voice, and Kiran placed a hand on her shoulder. “When was the last time you had any sleep yourself, Sakura? Or food? You have done more for this girl than any other possibly could.” The young healer smiled up at her, her cheeks pink at the praise. “Take care of yourself. I can summon you if there is a need.”

Reluctantly, Sakura sunk back on her heels, glanced at the sleeping girl and then at the fire. “As you will. If she wakes, there is a pot of broth warming on the fire. See if she can drink some. And water.” She stood and removed a cloak hanging from a peg near the door. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she hesitated, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Are you sure, Kiran?”

She nodded. “It is important you take care of yourself. You can heal no one if you’re exhausted, starving, and weary.” She glanced down at the sleeping princess. “I promise to summon you if there is the slightest change.”

The promise seemed to alleviate the concerns of the young healer, and she nodded. “Thank you. I’ll be back in the morning. I will be in Corrin’s quarters if you have need of me before then.” As one of the senior officers of the Order, Corrin was afforded the luxury of private accommodations that were closer than the barracks Sakura shared with the other healers. “Good night, Kiran.”

Once Sakura was gone, Kiran readjusted herself so that she sat cross-legged next to the pallet and rummaged through the satchel she had brought with her. It was not the first time she had sat vigil at the bedside of wounded comrade. The hours would pass slowly, so she had brought a book.

Alfonse had given it to her earlier when she had stopped by his room to apologize for her harshness. He had brushed off her apology and admitted that there was truth in what she said, that he needed to act more like a prince and less like a hero sometimes.

After their reconciliation, he had offered her the book. It was related to the prophecy he and Anna had bickered about when they had first seen the odd flames burning the land along the Askran border. Something about flames and the end of the world. After meeting so many heroes from so many worlds and learning their histories, she was convinced that almost every world was on the verge of ending. However, if this Múspell had something to do with the “prophecy,” it was worth familiarizing herself with it, and so she flipped through the worn pages and began reading.

Nearly an hour passed when a soft whimper drew Kiran from a tragically bland and vague description of the Rite of Flames. The face of the princess was contorted either in pain or fear, and her slight body trembled under blanket. Kiran gingerly placed a hand on her shoulder. It was so small, delicate. It was like holding a bird in her hand, so slight and fragile. “Shhh, little bird, that fight has passed.” She soothed. When her features slackened, and shivering ceased, she withdrew her hand. But within moments, it began again. Sighing, she shifted closer, so she sat partially on the pallet, and turned so that her left side was towards the fire and the princess curled towards her so that she could more easily rest her hand on her back.

When the she had settled again, Kiran resumed reading.

* * *

It was well into the pre-dawn hours when the princess stirred again. Kiran felt her shift underneath her hand and looked down to see wide blue eyes watching her.

After a slow, tired blink, the girl licked cracked, dry lips. “Water?” The word was no more than a rasp, a whisper. Kiran shut her book and fetched a clay cup from the table, filling it from the pitcher. When she returned, the princess had rolled onto her back, lifting herself onto her elbows. The blanket fell away, still covering her chest but baring her shoulders. The wound on her shoulder had healed to an angry red scar, but its length and width told her how serious of an injury it had been.

Hastily, Kiran placed a hand under the girl’s shoulders to support her as she lifted the cup to her lips. Neither spoke as she drank until she pushed her head back to signify she was done. Kiran set the cup beside her, and the ice princess carefully lowered herself back onto the pallet.

“Why?” The princess asked, her eyes shutting again.

Kiran quirked a brow even though it was hidden under the shadow of her hood. “Why what?”

“Why…” The girl swallowed and licked her lips again, as if each word was an insurmountable obstacle she was forced to overcome. “Why are you here?” The question was tired, weary but had the bite of ice to it.

“Sakura needed rest.” It was the truth but not all the truth. Enough of it.

“So? I thought you were quite clear earlier that you care little for me.” The words were still raspy and weak but gained strength with use. There was no anger in her words, only defeat.

Kiran sat back on her heels, aware that the princess was watching her. “I do not know you.” She paused, annoyed by the unfairness of her words. She was silent until she managed to suppress her irritation. “I know that you have suffered greatly at the hands of the Surtr.” At the mention of the name, Fjorm flinched as if merely mentioning his name would summon him forth. “I know you desire revenge or justice. But I will not let you risk my people or _yourself_ for it. I would say that is demonstrating a great deal of care for you.”

“It is not your decision to make.” The ice princess turned her head away from her, towards the fire that was only a smoldering glow of orange embers and ash. “It is my life and my death to risk. Why do you care?”

There was a deep ache in Kiran’s chest, a sadness that accompanied the realization that Fjorm not only cared little for her own life but actually intended, maybe even wanted, to die at Surtr’s hand. Reflexively, she reached out and stroked her hair gently. She could not imagine the suffering and agony that had ripped a person’s most basic instinct of self-preservation away from her.

Her grief was tangible, a heart-rending anguish that was as clear and real as if it had been a third person in the room. Many of the heroes she had summoned possessed grief, their own stories of loss and trauma. All had known war, the shriek and groan of the battlefield. They had been abused, betrayed, oppressed, and wounded. If heroes were forged by hardship, they were tempered by grief and sharpened by survival.

But for Fjorm, it was all still fresh. She had mentioned watching her mother die, but she suspected that the death had not been a quick one. She had told Sharena of Múspell, of the war that had ravaged her kingdom for months now. She had watched her kingdom fall to a superior invading force, futilely struggled to prevent it, separated from siblings whose fate she did not know. In how many battles had she fought and seen her comrades, the soldiers she led, killed, maimed, crushed? She had been powerless, helpless to do anything but watch as everything and everyone she cared for succumb to the flames of invasion.

Surtr’s blade probably did seem a mercy after experiencing all of that. Only he had not killed her when it was clear he easily could have. Instead, he maimed her, wounding her in a way that would rob her of the ability to hold a lance or sword ever again. His goal was to render her even more powerless. Surtr was a sadist, and Kiran suspected she still knew very little of all the horror and atrocity he had brought down on Nifl, on Fjorm.

The ice princess was shattered, but not broken.

“It _is_ my decision.” She said softly, tenderly. “The relic Breidablik has entrusted me with the well-being of every Hero I summon. For reasons far beyond my comprehension, I was chosen to be responsible for the Order, for Alfonse and Sharena, for Sakura, for all Heroes, for you.” She continued running her fingers through her short blond hair in a way she hoped was comforting. The locks of wheat gold were impossibly soft under her fingers, like the fur of a baby rabbit. Fjorm did not pull away or shrink from the touch, but also did not otherwise react, her gaze still fixed on the hearth.

“I do not claim to be worthy of the honor and responsibility. But because of it, I care even if you do not.” She stopped stroking her hair and rested her hand on the crown of her head as if willing her to feel her sincerity. “Once you are healed, I will not stop you from rejoining the fight, but I will not allow you to throw your life away needlessly, purposelessly. For whatever you have suffered, your death serves only Surtr.”

The first sob was soundless, just a tensing jerk of her shoulders. Her tears were silent, and Kiran said nothing. There were some wounds that no words could soothe. Apologies were empty, serving only the apologist. Reassurances were empty and invalidated hurts that were justified. Sometimes loss and grief were best served by being allowed to experience them. The princess was not weak, and Kiran did not want to insinuate she thought so by coddling her. So, she let her cry.

Eventually, her breathing steadied and the quake of her shoulders ceased. Finally, she turned her face back towards Kiran. Wordlessly, she moved her hand from the top of the girl’s head to wipe a tear from her cheek with her thumb. Neither said anything for a long time, and Kiran withdrew her hand to her lap.

“Fjorm,” She finally spoke. “Sakura would like you to try to drink some broth, are you up to it?”

The ice princess appeared relieved that neither her tears nor what prompted them would be addressed. Slowly, she nodded. “I think so.”

“Would you like to try on your own?” It was unimaginably frustrating to feel so incapable of even the most basic tasks; she knew from experience. Or at least she assumed she did. Her body was a masterpiece of scars, some old and faded, others still pink and raw. It was odd to see them and not know what weapon or accident had inflicted them. Cheeks still wet with tears, Fjorm likely needed to feel in control of something, anything. Kiran could give her that at least.

Fjorm nodded again, this time more eagerly. “Please.”

“Very well. I am going to move you to the bed, so you can prop yourself up on the pillows. Is that alright?” Another nod and Kiran gently slipped an arm under her shoulders and another under her thighs and gently lifted her. She was even lighter without her armor, and Kiran easily moved her the few steps to the bed. The blanket slipped away as she moved.

Her armor had been removed, and her clothing had been cut away so that Sakura could examine her for injuries and wash her body of dirt, grit, and blood. Without the blanket, she was naked except for the fresh undergarments that the healer had dressed her in. For the sake of Fjorm’s modesty, Kiran moved swiftly.

Nonetheless, the princess from the ice kingdom shivered as the air hit her exposed skin. The fine, delicate hairs on her arms stood up as the sudden cold coaxed goosebumps to the surface of her skin. Kiran could not stifle the soft laugh that escaped her as she set her down on the bed and helped her back under the blankets, adjusted the pillows so she could lean back comfortably. “I did not think the people of your kingdom got cold.”

Fjorm’s smile was faint but her blush pronounced as she pulled the blanket to cover her chest. “We all know cold.”

Kiran filled a wooden bowl with the broth left warming on the fire, returned, and sat on the edge of the bed. She had only filled the bowl halfway, so it would not be too heavy. Fjorm’s arms were shaky, so she helped guide the bowl to her lips before relinquishing it to her. They sat in silence as the princess drank then extended the bowl for more. As Kiran refilled it, she quietly said, “Thank you. You were kind even when I was certain you were not.”

Shaking her head, Kiran lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “You have been through much.” The corners of her lips quirked into a smile. “Besides, I have a manner that I have been told can be… abrasive?”

“I would have said… stern.” Fjorm tilted her head and returned her smile. “After you left, Princess Sharena remained by my side for an hour or two. She answered many questions for me. She told me about Breidablik, the Great Hero, the Summoner, about Askr’s war with Embla.” She held the bowl with both hands, resting it in her lap. She stared at it without seeing it. “I think she was concerned about my impression of you.”

“Sharena is a sweet girl. Drink, before the broth grows cold.”

Fjorm nodded her head. “She reminds me of my younger sister.” She finished the broth in a long sip and offered it to her as if demonstrating her compliance. Kiran accepted the bowl, placed it on the floor at her feet. “Where is the owl?” She asked abruptly, after several long breaths of quiet.

“Feh?” The summoner snorted softly. “Hunting. She is very cranky when she has not eaten. Crankier than usual.” Although persnickety, Feh was extremely loyal and protective of her. She had been there since the beginning, appearing with Kiran when she had been summoned. Despite having no memory of her life before, she had intuitively known the owl’s name as she had her own. Unless off hunting, she was almost always perched on her shoulder or somewhere nearby.

“Feh? Is that her name?” She covered her mouth with a small hand as she yawned. “I apologize—"

“No need. You should rest.” Kiran stood and leaned over her, assisted in readjusting the pillows so that she could lay down, pulling the blankets so they covered her shoulders. “Sakura will be cross with me if she finds out that you did not rest adequately.”

Her eyes were already half-closed, as if the mere suggestion of sleep had rendered her incapable of staying awake. She was surprised that she had stayed awake as long as she had. Healing was exhausting, sapping the body of energy swiftly, making simple tasks seem arduous to the point that keeping one’s eyes open was a heroic feat.

The princess lost the fight, and her eyes shut. “Will you stay?”

It was a plea, rather than a question, and it caught Kiran off guard. “I will be right here, little bird.” She pulled the pallet closer to the bed for comfort and sat on it, her back against the hard, wooden bedframe. Small fingers sought her shoulder and fisted in the fabric of her robe, as if she wanted to reassure herself that she was not alone. Kiran waited until deep, slow breaths told her that Fjorm was asleep before cracking open her book.

* * *

The next morning, the summoner was gone when she awoke. The Askr princess had replaced her and sat in a chair beside the bed, bent over a garment in her lap with needle in thread. Her concentration was absolute, tongue caught between her teeth as she meticulously laid a row of stitches. Fjorm watched as she narrowed green eyes as if suspicious of the thread, double-back, count the stitches and continue. After about five minutes, she finished and knotted the thread, cutting it with her teeth.

“Good morning.” Her voice visibly startled her, and wide eyes snapped towards her. Sheepishly, Fjorm offered her a faint smile. “Sorry.”

Sharena relaxed with a long exhale, then smiled broadly. “It’s okay. I just thought you were still asleep.”

“I didn’t want to disturb your work.”

“Oh. It’s just.” She held up the garment she had been working on. A simple, beige linen tunic made for a warmer climate than Nifl. “Sakura said that if you feel up to it, I can take you around the Hall today. Your armor is still being repaired, and your clothes… well. I’m sorry, they couldn’t be saved.” She said with genuine regret. “But Robin had some extra clothing and was happy to donate it. She’s almost your size but…”

“That is very kind. Thank her for me. And thank you.” Perhaps it was because she had only known war for the past six months. Maybe she had grown accustomed to the cruelty and horror men and women were capable of visiting upon one another. But everyone she had encountered in Askr was so effortlessly kind. Helping others seemed stitched into their nature, and it was clear they did so without any expectations of reciprocity. Kindness and compassion were their own rewards. They were admirable people, and they reminded her of Gunnthrá.

“It isn’t a problem.” Sharena put the sewing needle in a small leather case, laid the tunic on the foot of Fjorm’s bed where a pair of breeches already laid. “Sakura said you could have some bread along with the broth if you were hungry?”

“Please.”

Sharena prepared the bowl of broth for her first and then tore two satisfying chunks of bread from one of two loaves left on the table. The first she gave to Fjorm, and the second she nibbled on herself. “Kiran said you managed the broth just fine last night, so Sakura said it was fine to try some easy solid food next. And if that goes well, you can try to eat a real meal tonight. Which would fantastic because the cooks are making a pot roast with carrots and mashed potatoes and it is…” The princess’s eyes closed as if she were fantasizing about it. “Well, it’s amazing.” She opened her eyes and grinned.

Fjorm nodded and finished chewing before answering, unable to resist the smile that tugged on the corners of her lips. “That does sound good.” She chased the bread with a sip of broth. “I do feel hungry. The broth is good but…” Her stomach was craving something more substantial. The bread seemed to sate it for the moment, but the thought of actual food made it grumble in anticipation. “You have cooks here?”

“Oh, yes! We actually have three kitchens…” While she finished eating, Sharena happily told her about the three kitchens their base boasted. One was adjacent to the barracks and prepared all the food for the troops to be served in the barracks dining hall. One was dedicated to baking the massive quantities of bread needed to feed so many hungry warriors. It also prepared the hard biscuits and small meat pies they carried with them while away on missions or assignments. The third was in the keep, or Hall as everyone called it, and catered to those who resided there, mostly officers of the Order.

Sharena excitedly explained that because their heroes came from all worlds, so did their cooks, and so they benefited from a variety of the best meals from across the worlds. Better than anything she had at home in the castle. But as soon as Fjorm finished eating, she popped to her feet, took her bowl, clearly eager to show her around. “I’ll let you change. There is a basin of water on the table and some soap if you want to wash. Do you need help?”

Shaking her head, Fjorm flexed her ankles experimentally, then bent her knees. “I think I can manage. Thank you.”

“Okay!” Sharena practically skipped to the door. “I’ll be back soon!”

Once alone, she threw the blanket off her, swung her legs over the side of the bed. Very slowly and careful to keep a hand on the bed to steady herself, she stood for the first time in days. At first, she swayed dangerously, but after several seconds she stabilized. With each step, she felt more confident, and by the time she reached the table and basin, she almost felt normal. Washing was a bit tricky. She still felt a strong twinge of protest whenever she moved her right arm, the shoulder refusing consent to a full range of motion, but she had managed.

Dressing had been similarly awkward. The trousers, belt, and boots had been clumsy to don but easy enough; they did not require her to reach or rotate her shoulder. The tunic had been solved by putting her injured arm through the sleeve first, then her good arm, and then bending at the waist to pull it over her head so she did not have to raise her arms. The clothes fit surprisingly well. They were not Nifl style, of course, nor did they seem Askran.

The last challenge was the cloak. Casting it around her shoulders was easy but fastening it at the base of her throat was proving impossible with one hand. It was a simple catch: a brass button on one side with a loop of leather on the opposite side. The problem was the loop was so small that threading the button through required precision. She swore under her breath as she tried and failed for the fourth time.

The heavy door shut, and Fjorm glanced up to see summoner watching her. Well, she assumed she was watching her. It was impossible to tell with the hood still pulled low over her face.

“I am unable to fasten the damn thing.” She explained, her face reddening in embarrassed frustration.

Kiran wordlessly crossed the room and dropped to one knee in front of her so that they were roughly the same height. She deftly used both hands to pull the loop over the button, fastening it securely under her chin. Her hands were strong, Fjorm noticed, and crisscrossed with a lattice of white scars that appeared very old.

It was humiliating. She could not even dress herself without assistance. How was she supposed to retake Nifl when a mere cloak could thwart her? She had failed at protecting her mother, failed at protecting Ylgr, Gunnthrá, her people. Surtr had not even considered her dangerous enough to kill, not even enough of a threat to eliminate. Now she was safe in another world while her kingdom and people suffered and burned. “I’m useless.” She murmured. Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed, and she refused to look at the other woman, ashamed at her catalogue of failures.

“Fjorm.” Kiran said sharply, reproachfully. She felt her chin taken in the other woman’s hand, felt the callouses of her fingers, her face turned towards an expression and a face she could not see but could only assume was solemn. “You are alive. As long as you draw breath, there is hope.”

Startled by the admonishment, Fjorm nodded automatically. She flushed with an unexpected, curious heat that was not embarrassment or indignation. It was unthinkable that a near-stranger would scold her. No one outside of her family would dare, but Kiran was different. It was as if she did not recognize the boundaries a lack of familiarity created, or maybe as if Breidablik shattered those boundaries with its magic. Fjorm suspected it was the latter, that the summoner treated everyone touched by the light of Breidablik the same way, whether they were a stranger or family or even foe.

Sharena had explained the legend of the relic and its Great Hero the previous day, but Fjorm began to suspect that it was not as simple as the Askran princess had made it seem. The relic was not a tool to show her the way to new heroes. It was not a weapon that pointed the way to new allies, new assets to aid her purpose. It was a guide that led her to others, and its light was a promise. Once the light of Breidablik touched another person, they became bonded to the Summoner and she to them.

The new hero might join the Order, might join whatever purpose or crusade Kiran fought for, but that was not why Breidablik led her to them. It was as if relic was telling her that they were her responsibility now, that her duty was to all those she summoned. It did not bring her to the heroes; it brought the heroes to her. They were all the same, they all _became_ the same the moment light touched them: her responsibility, her clan, her kin. Wielding Breidablik was a vow that Kiran considered sacred.

As if to confirm her suspicion, the summoner’s hand moved to cup her cheek tenderly. “I know the frustration of not feeling capable. But give your body time to heal, and I promise we will all be beside you when you face Surtr.”

Fjorm wished she could see her face, look into her eyes, search them for the truth of what she suspected, but the hood and shadow were securely in place. “Yes, Kiran.” She managed to breathe.

The hand was withdrawn, but she remained kneeling. “I came to tell you that we’re leaving to scout the border, gain intelligence for Askr’s knights.” She paused. “Sharena has volunteered to stay so you are not without a familiar face.”

Arguing would be useless, Fjorm knew. No matter how desperate she was to rejoin the fight against Múspell, even she had to admit that her shoulder would not let her. Not yet. “Please be careful. Surtr has more power than you can imagine.”

“We will. Sakura is hopeful that another few days will see you fighting fit, and by then, we will have returned.” Finally, she stood; it almost seemed reluctantly. “Please let Sharena know if you have need of anything, and if you cannot find her, Corrin. Tall, silver hair, voice like an angel.” Her lips quirked in a sort of smirk. She gave a half nod of farewell before turning and headed for the door.

“Kiran,” Fjorm called after her. The summoner stopped, door half open, looked over her shoulder. “Thank you. For—” She faltered. She had fallen asleep clutching the loose fabric of her robes at the shoulder, needing to feel the tangible closeness of another person, someone she was reasonably certain would not harm her. Surtr had isolated her, made her feel so incredibly alone—

Realization struck her, and it was like being plunged into ice water. Every fiber of her existence was suddenly aware all at once. It had not occurred to her last night. She had told Sharena about Múspell, at least the skeleton of events, an outline of what had happened. It was not surprising that the princess had told the summoner; she would have been surprised if she had not told her comrades. But she had never mentioned Surtr by name, not to Sharena, not to Kiran, not to anyone in the Order. But Kiran had known.

“H-h-how did you—” She stuttered, surprised that she felt no fear, as if she trusted that there was a reasonable explanation for Kiran to know something she should not have. It was the danger of such trust that frightened Fjorm. “I never mentioned Surtr, never told any of you his name. How did you know his name?”

“Gunnthrá told me.” Kiran said and disappeared behind the closing door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: hot springs. Because of course.


	3. Guided by a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before that moment, Fjorm had not known it was possible to blush with her whole body.

Gradually over the next few days, Fjorm felt her strength return. It happened slowly at first, so slowly that it was almost unnoticeable. She was able to stay awake for longer stretches of time. Her arms no longer trembled when she lifted a full bowl of broth to her lips. Her throat no longer felt gritty and raw when she spoke. Her emotions, her grief was easier to keep in check. Her stomach tolerated solid food without lurching. She was able to lift her arm over her head, reach, turn, fasten the cloak unaided.

On the third day, Sakura gave Sharena permission to take Fjorm on a tour through the base camp.

The place the Order of Heroes claimed as their base was a fort abandoned nearly a century ago during the reign of Sharena’s grandmother’s mother, Queen Hecate. Once a marvel of Askran architecture and strategic design, it had fallen out of use after many decades of peace. Far from the capital and nestled on the northern crest of a rocky valley, it was too remote and expensive to maintain and supply. At one time, it had been vital to secure the entire northeastern region against the nomadic raiders that ventured through the gates to plunder and pillage the comparatively wealthy villages and towns of Askr.

But the peace between Embla and Askr had all but eliminated that threat, and so the fort had been abandoned. It had weathered the neglect with amazing resilience due to the quality of Askran stonework and superior engineering. When the Order had taken it over, they had to remove the overgrowth of vines and plants as the forest attempted to reclaim the fort, but the biggest challenge had been the walls. They were still standing but had crumbled in a few places and outright crushed by an enormous fallen tree in another. Sharena told her that they used it as an opportunity expand the footprint of the fort by pushing the outer walls back twelve meters and reinforcing them with contemporary techniques.

With more room, the stables, which had been largely constructed of wood and needed to be rebuilt anyway, were increased in size. Now they were not only capable of housing horses, but also the wyverns and Pegasi that often accompanied their heroes. They had also used the extra space to increase the size of the forge, so it could be shared by a general blacksmith and both a master weaponsmith and armorer. Also, new shops were erected to provide each with adequate work spaces as well as make room for a tanner, leatherworker, and tailor.

There was the barracks, where most of the troops and lower-ranking heroes resided either in large bays with several rows of bunk beds or in smaller six-person rooms. If it was necessary, they could push the upper capacity by setting up tiers of hammocks in the empty spaces between beds. It would be cramped, but they would be able to house another two hundred troops in such a manner. But that would only happen in the instance of an emergency, Sharena assured her.

For recreation, the Great Hall had a modest library that was open to all. The generous area behind the Great Hall had been transformed from an overgrown jungle into a well-manicured garden that many heroes maintained in their idle time. They tilled the rich earth, planted rows of vibrant flowers, pruned hedges and bushes. It had become a common hobby for many, and even those who did not have a talent for gardening still enjoyed relaxing in the shade of the trees, listening to the laughter of the fountains and chorus of the birds.

There was even a tavern now. Despite Anna’s objections and at Kiran’s encouragement, almost every member of the Order had contributed something to its construction. People needed an outlet, and the tavern had been a huge success. It gave the heroes a place to relax, to socialize, to perform and listen to music, to drink. And there had only been two brawls thus far.

In two years, the abandoned fort had evolved into its own town with civilians settling in the surrounding hills, farmers claiming abandoned lands along the river below the fort, and merchants establishing regular trade with the Order. Originally, the fort had been called Fort Skjoldr after one of Askr’s less memorable monarchs. But the civilians that had settled around them named it “Vǫlsungr” after the heroes who called it home. It meant “chosen ones.”

The whole arrangement was truly tremendous. Vǫlsungr easily equaled any of the forts in Nifl, and in some respects it surpassed them. Special attention had been paid to address the needs of the members of the Order. Those touches made it so much more than a headquarters or defensive base; they made it into a home. That they had achieved so much in so short a time was nothing short of miraculous.

According to Sharena, Kiran had breathed life into the Order, gave it purpose and direction. They had been transformed from a loose, ragtag association of heroes into a disciplined, professional army.

As if all that had not been impressive enough, on the fourth day, Sharena showed her what she considered the best part of Vǫlsungr. It was just about midday, and everyone was occupied with training or work or missions or lunch, so they would have it all to themselves. Eagerly, the Askran princess led her through the Hall down a series of stairs that she took two at a time. She waited at the bottom of the landing for Fjorm to catch up.

“I apologize, I’m still not as quick as normal.” Not to mention that her legs were not long enough to take the steps two at a time, Fjorm thought.

Sharena grinned sheepishly and took her hand, walking more slowly. “I should apologize. I’m just excited!” Her cheerfulness was infectious, and the ice princess could not help but smile in return as she was led through winding corridors and dark stairways that led them ever deeper beneath the Hall until the corridors became a mine, carved from dark stone and reinforced with heavy wooden beams. Finally, they came to a steel door. Sharena held it open for her.

As soon as she stepped into the room, she felt it. The air was thick and humid. It almost felt heavy, and Fjorm wondered how air could have weight. It was like trying to breathe through a woolen cloth on a hot day. Almost instantly, her skin felt moist, slick.

The mine opened into a natural cavern, a cathedral of high ceilings and rock pillars. The atmosphere crackled with the magical light that illuminated the massive room in a dim glow. The walls glittered as the light caught and reflected off crystals and veins of ore. The ground sloped down into a natural pathway between two stalagmites that glistened with the moisture in the air.

“What is it?” She asked.

“You’ll see!” Sharena sang and skipped ahead. They followed the path down as it snaked around more rock formations and finally led to the open chamber.

It was hard to tell exactly how large it was in the dim light. They were now at the opposite side of it from the door, about sixty meters. It had to be at least five times that in length, Fjorm guessed. It was a beautiful grotto of stalagmites and stalactites, pillars where the two joined. Beautiful crystals of blue, green, and some colorless bloomed from the rock as if growing. There was an arch over the pathway where it continued to snake along the side of the chamber out of sight. Fjorm had explored glacial caverns since childhood and always marveled at their natural beauty, at the way water carved magnificent sculptures through the ice. This was different, but no less wonderous.

And at the center of the chamber was an enormous spring. The water almost seemed to glow and pulse pale blue just under the surface. Steam rose from it in wispy tendrils. A hot spring.

On the opposite of the spring and about thirty meters to her left was a rocky outcropping about five meters above the water. Movement in the darkness drew her eye. Fjorm caught sight of a dark silhouette diving from the outcropping into the water, body visibly cutting through the clouds of steam and knifing into the water with barely a splash.

“I told you.” Sharena grinned and began pulling off her boots. “Can you believe we had been here two months before we found it? Well, Alfonse found it.”

“It’s amazing.” Fjorm turned in a full circle, trying to absorb as much of her surroundings as possible, trying to wrap her mind around the wonder of it. Above her, light glittered above them like stars, glimmers of white that seemed to float in the air. She pointed. “What is that?”

The other princess looked. “Oh, mage light. It’s what we use for light down here. Cheaper than lanterns.” She fumbled for something in her belt. It mimicked the illumination of twilight, where shadows were just barely still visible, but objects melted into the dark at a distance. “It fades over time and needs to be recast every so often. I should probably tell Robin; it’s darker than usual. Ah!” She felt along rocks and struck a match. “Here we are.”

The bank of the spring exploded into light as the lantern was lit and adjusted. When her eyes readjusted, the area was cast into a comfortable, flickering gold light. It did little to penetrate the overwhelming darkness of the chamber but illuminated the area surrounding them well enough. “It’s amazing.”

“You haven’t even gotten in yet. Come on! You can throw your clothes over that rock.” Sharena indicated by pulling her tunic over her head and casting it over the nearest stalagmite.

It appeared Nifl was a bit more conservative than Askr. Nudity was not exactly taboo in the ice kingdom, but people apparently were more modest. Maybe because it was too cold to be without clothes unless alone or in the privacy of one’s home. A bit self-consciously, she began to undress. Instead of casting her clothes over the nearest rock, she took the time to fold her tunic to delay removing her trousers.

It did not seem to bother the younger princess in the slightest, and she stripped quickly. “The water is shallow here.” She said before splashing in with an appreciative whoop.

Fjorm fought a rising blush by following Sharena into the water until it was waist-deep. Involuntarily, she sucked in a breath. The heat of the water stung her skin like an infinite number of pinpricks wherever she was submerged. It was not-quite painful, and after several breaths, her body adjusted. It was pleasant, enjoyable even.

Lately, she had only been able to wash with cold water and a bar of soap, and sometimes not even that, just the freezing water of lake or stream and a handful of sand to scrub herself. She had not been able to wash properly in weeks, maybe even months. Compared to that, this spring was paradise. She ventured deeper, all modesty forgotten.

The Askran princess ducked under the water and rose scrubbing her face with both hands. “Are there hot springs in Nifl?”

“Oh, yes.” Fjorm nodded. “But they are all in the open air. We build bathing houses around them, or else you have to leave your clothes in the snow. But none so large as this.” She stared, watching the water around Sharena as she moved. The glow seemed to ripple with the water, as if stimulated by movement it almost imperceptibly intensified for half a moment. “Nothing like this.” She said, fascinated. She looked under the water at her own hand, moved it back and forth and watched as layers of varying blue luminosity swirled and twisted with the currents she created.

“Is it always winter in Nifl? I mean, is it always cold?” Sharena asked.

Fjorm laughed. “No. Well, except in the mountains. Our summers are short, longer in the south. Spring is beautiful.” She felt a pang of homesickness, but quickly shoved it away. If she thought about home, she would think about Múspell, and she did not want to. She wanted to enjoy the warm water and Sharena’s companionship.

As if sensing the potential shift in mood, Sharena quickly interrupted her thoughts by changing the subject. “I think they’re making beef stew tonight. We can eat in the Hall, so you can meet some of the other heroes. If you’d like.” So far, they had only eaten in Fjorm’s room. Sometimes Sakura joined them, but otherwise, it had only been the two of them. Meeting some of the others would be nice. She had yet to meet Corrin, the woman Kiran mentioned.

Smiling and grateful for the change in subject, she nodded. Her first impression of Sharena had been that she was young and that her cheerfulness was born of naivete and immaturity. But over the past few days, she had discovered that while Sharena _was_ somewhat naïve, she was actually intuitive, easily picking up on Fjorm’s mood if it began to darken. Her sunniness was not born of a lack of acquaintance with the horror of the world, but to spite it. The more time they spent together, the more Fjorm appreciated her. “I would like that. Kiran told me if I needed anything and couldn’t find you, I should ask Corrin. But I’ve yet to meet her.”

“Oh, Corrin is lovely!” Sharena exclaimed, and Fjorm wondered if there was anyone that the younger princess disliked. “She usually takes dinner in the Hall; I’ll introduce you.”

“I’d like that.”

They fell into a comfortable silence. Fjorm lifted her feet and floated on her back. It was easy to forget the world here, in the heart of the earth, watching the mage light flicker like mating fireflies in the velvet darkness, swaddled in the warmth of enchanted water. For the first time in memory, she felt her mind still and empty.

The water broke a few meters away, startling her to splash to get her feet back under her. A woman surfaced. She had forgotten about silhouette that she had seen diving earlier, but Sharena seemed unbothered by the intrusion, preoccupied with unbraiding her wet hair. “I always forget. Should have done this before I got in.” She muttered to herself. The woman swam towards them with fluid, athletic strokes until the spring was shallow enough for her to stand, but as she did so she seemed to notice them for the first time and stiffened.

She blinked narrow gray eyes and then headed towards Fjorm, who froze. If the stranger posed a threat, she knew Sharena would not be so casually picking tangles from her hair. She trusted her enough that her lack of reaction should put her at ease. This was hardly the first hero to approach her. Some of the heroes of the Order had already introduced themselves as Sharena showed her around the base, eager to welcome an unfamiliar face.

But that had been different; both she and they had clothes on at the time.

The stranger stopped in front of her, and Fjorm had to tilt her head back to look up at her. She had a narrow, angular face that was handsome, but the strong jaw and high cheekbones made her appear stoic and severe. She was older than both Sharena and herself, perhaps thirty? Definitely one of the older Heroes she had encountered. Her hair was worn loose and long, sticking to the exposed skin of her neck and shoulders. In the dim light and darkened by water, it was impossible to discern its color. It could have been anything between a deep, rich red to black.

Sharena finally glanced at her and abandoned the tangle of her hair in recognition and chirped, “Kiran!”

_Kiran_.

Fjorm stared, confused, her brain stuttering as it failed to make the connection, restarted, and tried again. Her mind failed connect this face to that name. She did not recognize this woman, and finally she realized why. She had never seen her without the hood of her robes, never seen more than her mouth and chin. Carrying her from the battlefield with Feh judging her from her shoulder. Stroking her hair as she sobbed into the pallet, the touch of kindness unraveling her. Carrying her once again to the bed, laughing when she shivered with the cold. Chiding her when she called herself useless. Saying her sister’s name and then disappearing for four days.

She had thought about asking Sharena why Kiran always wore the hood of her robes up, pulled so low over her face so that all that was ever seen was her mouth. But she had not wanted to seem insensitive, assuming there was a reason for it.

But the woman gazing down at her had no disfiguring scars, no burns or discernible marks. There were no tattoos or birthmarks. Neither eye was lazy or wandering. She was not hideously ugly, in fact, the opposite. There was nothing. Nothing that might indicate why she would hide her face. “You’re normal!” She blurted without thinking.

Kiran arched both brows, puzzled. “As opposed to…?”

The ice princess felt her face burn and prayed to any god that may be listening for the spring to open and swallow her, save her from the embarrassment. Of all the stupid things to say. “The hood. I thought, well I didn’t know… Your face, I thought that—” She took a breath and then sighed heavily. “I have never seen your face.” She managed finally.

The answer appeared to amuse the summoner who visibly fought to suppress a grin and was failing. She leaned down, close enough that Fjorm felt her breath tickle her ear. “Well, now you’ve seen all of me.” She said quietly, not a whisper, but soft enough that only she could hear, and Fjorm’s breath caught in her throat. Of their own volition, her eyes followed the summoner as she walked into increasingly shallow water to the bank. The intended meaning of the comment became clear as the curve of her lower back became her buttocks and then strong, powerful thighs were revealed by the receding water.

Before that moment, she had not known it was possible to blush with her whole body. Quickly, she looked away, to Sharena who seemed oblivious of whatever transpired between the summoner and ice princess. She was grateful for the darkness, because the intensity of her blush would certainly betray her.

“When did you get back?” Sharena demanded, somewhat accusatorily.

“Not but an hour or so ago. I came straight here. Alfonse went looking for you.”

“Well, he didn’t find us. Fjorm, are you alright?”

“Oh,” Fjorm cleared her throat. “Yes, yes. I’m fine.” She had turned her back to the bank where presumably the summoner was dressing. She wanted to look anywhere but at her, but clearly that was more noticeable and awkward than looking at her.

Sharena’s expression was skeptical. “Is it your shoulder? We can find Sakura—”

“No!” She said quickly, too quickly. “No, I’m fine. I was just lost in my thoughts.” She forced herself to turn towards the bank, hoping she would have put clothing on by now, but she hadn’t. It was no different than Sharena being naked. That did not bother her. They were just comrades enjoying the hot spring. She tried to force her heart into a normal rhythm. It was no different from anyone else.

Except that it was.

Thankfully, mercifully, the summoner began pulling on trousers from a pack she had not noticed in the shadows. “Knowing him, he went straight to the kitchen.” She grumbled.

“Probably.” Sharena agreed and sighed. “I suppose we should get out, so we can meet with everyone.” She began wading through the water to the bank. Fjorm followed her in dismay. She would have to push right past Kiran to get to her clothes. Steeling herself, she managed to slip by the other woman as casually as possible and had almost reached her clothes when an angry red line caught her eye. Below Kiran’s arm pit, along the side of her rib cage was a long gash that curved around to her back. It was not deep and had already scabbed over, but it appeared painful.

“You’re injured.” Reflexively, she touched the skin along the edge of the wound just as Kiran raised her arms to allow her tunic to settle over her head. Fjorm quickly withdrew her hand. “I’m sorry.” She picked up her clothes clutched them to her chest.

“It’s okay.” Kiran said quietly, twisting to look at her as she put her arms through the long sleeves of her robe. “It does not hurt.” She turned so she was facing her as she shrugged her shoulders to adjust the robes. “Your shoulder?”

Fjorm focused on dressing herself, ignoring the sensation of being watched. She pulled on trousers first, then tunic. “Much better, thank you.” As if to demonstrate, she lifted her arms over her head and let the tunic slide down over her head into place. When she was finally dressed, she glimpsed at Kiran again only see that she had pulled the hood of her robe back up, pulled it low over her face again. It was oddly disappointing; she could no longer look into her eyes.

Both women were oblivious to Sharena, who watched the exchange with amusement. They were about as subtle as a typhoon. The ice princess was trying too hard to be casual, and the summoner was speaking in a tone that Sharena had never heard before. It was as if she were speaking to a wild animal she was trying to calm. Alfonse had acted similarly when they had first met Sakura, his voice had dropped to a lower register, and he tried to act nonchalant whenever she was around.

She had known the summoner for nearly two years now and had never seen her speak to someone as gently as she did Fjorm, treating her with such caution as if she were a fractured pane of glass one tap away from shattering. Normally she had very few words for new heroes, allowing Alfonse and Sharena to introduce them to the Order, acclimate them to life here. It was not until they had fought alongside her a few times that she would begin speaking with them.

Even then, she was reserved. She was kind to everyone, but she was aloof, professional. Her conversations rarely strayed from topics outside of Order business except with a select handful of heroes. Many had never even seen her face.

Grinning, Sharena pulled on her boots as Fjorm blushed again while Kiran reached down to fasten the ice princess’s cloak.

* * *

There was one room in the Hall that had been left largely untouched when the Order had taken over the fort. Except to clean it of debris, of ruined books and papers, it remained largely the same. The enormous table in the middle of the room had been refinished and resealed with wax and the maps scattered across its surface were new. The oil lanterns had been refilled, wicks changed. The bookshelves had been repaired if necessary and new, current references had been added. But it probably appeared very close to how it had a century ago when the last commander of the fort held the last briefing with his officers.

A century later, it was used for the same purpose. But instead of being called the Commander’s Call, the heroes called it the War Room. Kiran had come straight up to the room upon leaving the hot spring. She had felt the ice princess’s questions aching to be asked, and she did not want to answer, not yet, not when she would have to repeat herself later. Everyone needed to hear what she had to say, so she had declined dinner. She was hungry, but she knew from experience that if she looked pathetic enough, the cooks would scrounge together leftovers for her.

Anna was charged with tagging the senior officers of the Order for this meeting, set to occur immediately after the evening meal. Alfonse was the first to arrive, followed by Anna. The male Robin arrived with Selkie, who practically pranced over to her with a mug of still steaming tea. She thanked the kitsune girl with a surreptitious scratch behind her ears. The last to arrive were Sharena, Fjorm, and Corrin. Once they had arrived, Anna and Alfonse barred the heavy wooden door behind them, as was customary, signaling the meeting was called to order.

Feh glared at the intrusion of so many two-legged irritations and hooted her discontent. She leapt from Kiran’s shoulder, swooped low over Selkie’s head to annoy her, before settling on top of one of the bookcases. The window was open; she was free to fly out to hunt, but the summoner knew she would stay just to make her displeasure known.

The heroes all gathered around the table, with Kiran at one end and Anna at the other. She gave Alfonse a slight nod to start. “During our reconnaissance of Askr’s border, we encountered a number of groups of heroes fighting under the banner of Múspell…” He indicated on the large map in the center of the table where they had fought. “And Embla. It appears the two are allied for now.”

“Just what we need.” Robin muttered and there was a murmur of agreement. Sharena rolled her eyes dramatically. For some reason, the Askran princess who liked everyone, despised the Emblian princess. Kiran wasn’t fond of Veronica either, but Sharena adored Sophia and liked Peri, both of whom Kiran found much more insufferable than Veronica even if they hadn’t started a war against Askr. “Two of them.”

“I believe there is an advantage though.” Alfonse interrupted, and Kiran tilted her head. “From what I know about Veronica, she would never partner in a fair alliance.” He paused and gestured to Fjorm. “And from what Princess Fjorm has told us about Surtr, I believe the same of him to be true. Each thinks they are using the other to achieve their goals. Eventually, they will betray one another.”

It was a perceptive observation, and Kiran felt pride blossom in her chest. “It is something we can potentially exploit.” Corrin agreed. “But that is playing the long game. What is happening right now?” Alfonse, Anna, Robin, and Kiran had been on the mission to gather intelligence of Múspell’s invasion force, and she glanced at each expectantly.

It was the commander’s turn to chime in. “The forces of Múspell, led by Surtr, are continuing their invasion of Askr. King Gustav is leading the Royal Knights in defense of the realm.” She placed markers on the map to show the known locations of the Knights. “They’re doing their best to avoid a confrontation with Surtr himself. All they can do is buy time. I do not believe this tactic will continue to be effective.”

“We have the numbers to confront Surtr, surely?” Sharena insisted, glancing from Robin to Anna, the two senior strategists of the Order. “With father distracting part of the army with the Knights?”

“We tried. We could not make a single dent in his defenses.” The Askran prince answered instead, dejected. They had tried. They had fought for hours, but no blade or bow could pierce his armor. He was invincible. Kiran had never seen anything like it. It was as if the flames that enveloped him were a second skin, protecting him from any assault whether magic or blade.

“That is Surtr’s power.” Fjorm spoke quietly. While not a member of the Order Council, she had been invited specifically for her knowledge of Múspell. “The flames are undying, unquenchable… No hero, no weapon can defeat him.” Her arms were crossed protectively over her chest. Corrin rested a hand on the princess’s uninjured shoulder as if to reassure her and caught the summoner’s eye. The brief glance was enough to communicate understanding between them, and Kiran subtly tilted her head in gratitude.

“How do we fight something we cannot harm?” Anna planted her hands on the table and scanned the faces of the Order’s officers expectantly.

“I believe this is where I speak.” Kiran said, and every head snapped towards her, most surprised. She rarely contributed to the Council meetings unless she felt it absolutely necessary, and it rarely was. Officially, the Council did not require her approval to act. She was neither a strategist nor a commander; she was merely the Summoner. Unofficially, plans and decisions were vetted through her before they ever reached the War Room.

“Gunnthrá has appeared in my dreams again.” The Council met her with nervous quiet, except for Fjorm who had been stunned into silence and Alfonse who already knew. She avoided the ice princess’s eyes. “She has asked we come to Nifl. She suggests that united there is a way for us to defeat Surtr and the flames of Múspell.” She fell quiet, prepared for the debate she was certain would follow. In truth, she had given them an abbreviated version of the message, the dream.

It was not the first time she had appeared to her, nor was she the only of the Nifl heirs to intrude into her sleeping mind. But Gunnthrá spoke to her as if she were there, beside her, and the way she spoke to her was terribly intimate, as if she were a lover, lying next to her in bed, whispering tender promises of care and yearning in her ear.

“If only we could meet face-to-face, I would do what I could to ease your burden, my sweet Kiran.” She had told her. Those were the details the Council did not need to know. They did not need to know that she had awoken from the dream with silent tears streaking her cheeks and the ghost of a voice still in her ears.

“Go to Nifl?” Anna asked incredulously. “Split our forces and abandon Askr to its fate?” She shook her head vehemently. “That is a horrible idea.”

“My sister is well versed in the rites and magic of our realm.” Fjorm had overcome her initial surprise, and now did not seem skeptical in the least that her sister had spoken to the summoner in a dream. She had already known her sister had performed the Rite of Dreams, knew that there was someone she reached out to who was inexorably tied to the fate of Nifl. Her astonishment had not been the claim itself but the revelation that it had been _Kiran_ with whom her sister communicated.

The ice princess leaned forward on the table, towards the commander, blue eyes darker and harder than Kiran had seen. “She knows the danger that threatens Askr because it was the same that razed our kingdom. She would not ask this lightly. She must know of something that will let us fight back.”

“We know Kiran’s dreams to be true, that’s how we found Fjorm, after all.” Sharena pointed out, and the ice princess glanced at her again in surprise, then at Kiran to see if it was true. The summoner did her best not to react, which was easy enough with most of her face hidden by the hood.

Anna shook her head, errant red curls escaping her ponytail. “Of course, she told the truth about her sister. How do we know Surtr has not captured her and is forcing her to relay these messages?” None of the other Council members seemed to share her skepticism. Robin appeared deep in thought, the conversation lost to him. Corrin pursed her lips and shook her head.

“No one outside of this room knows of the Rite of Dreams except the royalty of Nifl. And besides my sister and me, they are all dead.” Fjorm declared flatly. “Surtr cannot know of it. This isn’t a trick of Múspell.” She looked around the table, seemingly holding the gaze of every member present. “I know it.”

Alfonse, who had been listening thoughtfully to the exchange, finally lifted his gaze. “Do you believe that something we can use to oppose Surtr lies in Nifl? Truly?”

Fjorm nodded resolutely. “I think that what we in Nifl could not accomplish alone is possible if we join with Askr.”

The young Askran prince looked at each officer, surveying their thoughts by searching their faces, starting with his sister. Anna might be commander of the Order, but she was still an Askran citizen and would not go against her prince. “Then we journey to Nifl.” He decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really like to hear what you guys think!


	4. Fiery Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was something strange between them. A closeness that should not be there. They had scarcely known one another a few weeks, yet there was an inexplicable familiarity to their interactions. There was a trust that should take time to build, an intimacy that was usually born from shared memories, experiences, vulnerabilities. They had not had the time to develop such a bond, yet there it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters may get longer as we progress. This one sure did. Oops.

It felt good to sleep under the stars again. They had tents of course, but some nights Fjorm chose to lay her bedroll next to the dying coals of their fire and sleep in the open. One of them was always on guard through the night so there was no danger, and she tolerated the cold much better than her comrades who preferred to huddle together in their tents for warmth. Vǫlsungr had been comfortable, but the stone walls blocked out the night sounds and fresh, cool air.

There were three tents. One for Alfonse and Robin and two for the females of their party, but when Fjorm decided to sleep outside, the Askran princess was happy to crowd into the other tent with Kiran and Selkie. The summoner swore it was like sleeping in a burlap sack filled with angry badgers, but Sharena claimed that if she really minded, she would kick her and Selkie out to share the other tent.

She yawned but was not quite ready to fall asleep. Her bedroll was still in the tent with Sharena, but she was not yet ready to climb inside. She wanted to enjoy the quiet of the autumn forest, with only the wind rustling the dry leaves and the fire crackling and popping as it burned low.

She looped her arms around her knees and gazed up, through the sparse leaves of the branches overhead, up at the sky. A dainty snore told her that Selkie was fast asleep, probably curled against Kiran like the little fox that she was. Somewhere on the edge of camp she heard the crunch of leaves as Alfonse walked a small patrol around the perimeter of their camp.

It was a beautiful night. After several weeks of travel with a dozen skirmishes, it was easy to let it all be a memory in favor of a chill breeze that carried the threat of snow and a swollen moon overhead. She wondered if it was a full moon in Nifl, if the lunar cycles matched that of this world.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Robin, the male one, had appeared at the opening of the tent he shared with Alfonse.

Fjorm shook her head and smiled at the white-haired tactician. “Of course not.” She did not think she would ever grow accustomed to the oddity of there being multiple versions of the same hero. There were an infinite number of worlds, and so naturally there were an infinite number of heroes. What she had not expected, were the heroes that were almost identical to one another, except differing in one small respect or another.

In her brief time with the Order, she had seen two Lucinas, identical in every respect except one carried her father’s falchion, and the other had abandoned the sword in favor of the lance. Allegedly there was a male version of Corrin as well, but she had yet to meet him. There was a version of Azura as a child, and a Camilla that wore clothing that was even more revealing.

This Robin was male and not to be confused with the other Robin, who was female and had traveled from a different version of Ylisse. The two white-haired tacticians were separate people with distinct personalities despite their eerie similarities. The female Robin was outgoing and affable, a natural leader. Male Robin was reserved, soft-spoken, and seemed to prefer books to people. Female Robin had married her world’s Chrom, and male Robin appeared to share his twin’s preference for dark-haired princes.

Even though they were different people, even though no version of the heroes was “correct,” it was difficult not to think of this Robin, male Robin, as _her_ Robin. She had met the other, Chrom’s wife, once and liked her well enough, but she had spent considerably more time with this Robin and more readily identified with his mild but pleasant manner.

With so many different worlds, she knew there must be other Nifls out there. Ones that had not been ravaged by undying fire, ones where she had been able to stop Surtr before he obliterated her family, her kingdom. If she met another Fjorm, what would they think of her?

“Can’t sleep?” Robin asked, sitting cross-legged on the opposite side of the fire.

“Don’t want to. Not yet. It’s a beautiful night.” She tilted her head back to look up at the stars, the moon. When she lowered her gaze, he was smiling knowingly.

“I have nightmares too.” He admitted.

Fjorm grimaced. “Is it obvious? I do not wake you, do I?” On their first night away, she had awoken, struggling furiously, fighting and kicking, but Sharena had wrapped her arms around her from behind to keep her from lashing out in her sleep. Fortunately, she had not hurt her in her blind, dream-induced panic, and Sharena had been kind, holding her and murmuring reassurances until Fjorm had fallen back asleep.

“No, not at all.” He shook his head, his unruly bangs falling unchecked into his eyes. “It is just easy for one tortured soul to recognize another.” He teased. She laughed quietly, covered her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound. “Almost all of us have pasts, some more tragic than others, whether we remember them or not.”

Unfortunately, Robin was another hero who had large chunks of his life missing from his memory. Some things had come back to him, he had told her, and little pieces still returned to him now and again, but all his childhood, most of his life before he had been found in a field by the Shepherds was lost to him. Corrin was another, but she was only missing her youngest years. Not like Kiran, who was missing everything prior to her appearing in Askr.

It had been Robin who explained this about the summoner. Fjorm had mentioned to Kiran that she did not appear to be from Askr and asked where she was from. Kiran had shrugged, told her she did not know, and excused herself to join Sharena and Selkie by the stream where they were refilling their skins and canteens. Bewildered, she had begun to follow her to apologize if the question had caused offense, but the tactician had stopped her and explained.

It was if she suddenly blinked into existence with her owl when Anna summoned her with Breidablik. The summoner had no hint of what her past might be, no vague or hazy memory. Just black emptiness where memory should be. Aside from her name, she knew nothing about herself. She did not even remember her age.

“I cannot imagine having no memory of who I was.” She said, staring sightlessly at the smoke that curled and danced as it rose into the night sky.

“You create new memories, a new life.” Robin said and shrugged.

Fjorm winced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

He smiled kindly, and she was reminded why he was _her_ Robin. “I know. No harm.” He glanced towards the tent where Kiran slept with the little kitsune girl. “The truth is, whoever you were seems to matter a whole lot less whenever you realize that the people that love you, love who you are _now_. And that person you were before doesn’t matter.”

She wondered if Kiran felt the same way. It was clear that every hero in the Order adored her. While she was reserved and economical with her words, when she did speak was always sincere. She could be abrupt and stern, but never malicious or cruel. Even her harsh words came from a place of care.

Like Gunnthrá, she had a way of making every single person she spoke to feel as if they were the only person in the world that mattered to her, as if she were personally invested in their happiness and well-being. It was demonstrated in her actions and decisions. In the way she ensured that Vǫlsungr was more than just a fort but a home. How she encouraged the others to debate and discuss and decide the best courses of actions instead of dictating what they would do, even though it was clear that they all considered her the head of the Order.

She was so like Gunnthrá in that way. She was magnetic and charming without meaning to be. It was effortless. Simply by being who they were, they earned the respect and affection of everyone they encountered. And while it was clear only a select few were allowed to know her, to glimpse at the person under the hood, it did not stop everyone from loving her.

Smirking at the tactician, she shifted so she sat cross-legged. “Does anyone else know?” She asked casually.

The tactician turned bright red, made even more obvious by the stark contrast with his white hair. “Know what?” He tried to mirror the nonchalance in her voice, but it ended up more like a squeak. Realizing that he was an absolute failure at feigning ignorance and that his denial was pointless, he sighed. “No. No. I don’t think so.” He fidgeted with the gold brocade trimming his robe, grimaced. “Is it obvious?”

“No,” She replied hastily, feeling slightly guilty for causing him any anxiety. “I think just because I’m a stranger. I am new to the Order; I notice things that others don’t. I won’t say anything, I promise.”

Visibly relieved, Robin relaxed and smiled. “It is hard. The situation is difficult with him being heir and me being… well, no one. Politics.” His smile turned sad. “It must be handled delicately.”

That she understood well enough. None of the Nifl heirs had yet married when Múspell had invaded. It was not for want of suitors. Hríd was very handsome and popular. Fjorm had her own… experiences, but they had been quiet and discreet. As heir, her life would never be solely her own; it belonged to Nifl. Even as the third daughter. Marrying for love was not out of the question, but any relationship, once public, would be scrutinized and judged and analyzed by the entire kingdom. That could cool even the most ardent romance.

He must have sensed her thoughts. “Do you…?”

She shook her head, her bangs falling in her eyes. “No. Not for time.” Not since the siege at the beginning of Múspell’s invasion. There was a nascent courtship with a cavalry captain, but that had been ended by a Múspell arrow. She shook her head again, as if she could shake away the memory, and changed the direction of the conversation. “Sharena?” She mouthed and pointed towards the tent where the Askran princess slept.

Robin chuckled softly. “Um. No one, I don’t think. Although I think she may fancy Marth.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Lucina-one.” Fjorm stared at him blankly, not understanding. “Have you seen the blue-haired prince with a mask? That is Lucina, disguised as the Hero-King, Marth.” He laughed again as her eyes widened. “I know, it is hard to keep track of everyone sometimes, but you get used to it.”

“And Anna?”

“I don’t think the commander could ever love anyone as much as she loves herself.”

Fjorm covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. “What about…? They seem very close? Not lovers though?” She forced her tone to be as neutral as possible as she gestured to the tent where the summoner and kitsune slept. Just like the owl, Selkie could always be found near Kiran, who seemed indulgent of the girl’s playful, affectionate nature. She did not seem to mind whenever Selkie pounced on her, climbing her as if she were a tree, clinging to her neck until Kiran paid attention to her.

It was charming to see the summoner interact with her. With all other members of their party, she was friendly and even affectionate in her own way at times, but still somewhat reserved. But with Selkie, she was quick to smile and even laugh. She always immediately checked Selkie for wounds after a fight, and the only time she had heard Kiran raise her voice in anger was when the kitsune had bounded into a knot of Múspell soldiers, beyond the reach and aid of her comrades.

While Kiran was protective of all of them, Fjorm had learned, she was especially so with Selkie. The reverse was also true. A few days ago, two Emblian soldiers backed the summoner against a tree, and Selkie ripped out the throat of one and sunk her canines into the face of the other and shook him violently, snapping his neck. Whatever bond they shared, while it did not seem overtly romantic, it did seem very close.

Robin shook his head and scrunched his nose. “Selkie was one of the first heroes she summoned. She is very young, and she has no one, no family, no kin. She is like a daughter to Kiran; I think because they are both alone; she feels very protective of Selkie.” He planted his hands on the ground behind and leaned back, speaking with a casualness that was clearly feigned. “I do not think Kiran is… involved with anyone.”

“Oh.” Fjorm shrugged, dismissing the matter as unimportant despite the flutter of relief in her chest. She had yet to shake the sensation that something about the summoner was different, but she had managed to stop blushing every time she squeezed her shoulder or praised her after a fight or fastened Fjorm’s cloak for her if she noticed it undone. Conversation was easier, and the awkwardness of feeling like an outsider had almost evaporated as everyone, Kiran included, made it very clear that she was one of them now. She was not a foreign princess seeking the help of the Order anymore; she was a Hero.

But she could not deny she felt drawn to the summoner, seeking out reasons to speak with her which was easy enough, and Kiran had done nothing to discourage her. From the moment they had met, it seemed like something had clicked into place, but for the life of her Fjorm could not figure out what. It was like a memory just barely out of reach, something she knew she was forgetting, but whatever it was it continued to elude her.

She had infatuations before, knew the creeping giddiness it elicited. She was not naïve and recognized almost immediately her attraction to Kiran, but there was something more. A connection that had nothing to do with attraction, but she could not grasp it. It was like a shadow on the edge of her vision, but every time she looked it disappeared.

“We should head to bed.” Robin dusted his hands clean on his trousers. “We have had a quiet few days. I do not believe it can last much longer.”

“You’re right.” She sighed, still not wanting to sleep, but acknowledged that she needed rest. Another few days and they would reach the gate, and if their journey through Askr had been harrowing, Nifl would prove to be much worse. “Thank you for your company, Robin.”

“Any time, Fjorm.” He paused at the entrance of his tent. “I am always here if you need anything.”

“Same.”

* * *

The city burned.

Everything that was not made of stone cracked and danced with the unquenchable flames of Múspell. Thatched roofs were incinerated in what seemed like mere moments. Overturned carts and abandoned wagons were reduced to charred rubbish. Wooden buildings were no match for the onslaught of burning pitch lobbed from catapults and trebuchets outside the city walls. The walls of buildings that were once white stone were now black with soot, and in some places where the flames burned hottest for the longest, the very stone itself melted. The entirety of the city seemed to be aflame.

The siege had begun only a week ago, but to Fjorm, it felt as if it had been her whole life. Even when she forced herself to remember her life before, what normal had felt like, it was like watching another person’s life instead of her own. Her life felt as if it had only started with the siege, as if she were born the moment the first trebuchet slung its load of pitch and flame and death into the city. She could not imagine a life outside of the chaos of battle, the fire of war, the stink of death. If the beginning of the siege had been her birth, then the end of it would likely be her death.

From her vantage on the walls of the Great Palace, she could see the entirety of the capital of Nifl sprawled beneath her, both the lower and upper city, the gates and walls that surrounded the highest point of the city, the Great Palace. The city had been built into the side of a mountain. It’s northern border a natural defense of towering peaks. At the base of the mountain lie the lower city and outside its walls the farms and orchards that supplied most of the city. Climbing with the natural elevation were the inner walls that protected the upper city, and ascending further were the walls that Fjorm currently stood on, another ring of defense for the city’s seat of power, the Great Palace that towered behind her.

She blinked several times to try and clear the sting of smoke from her eyes to gaze out on city she had called home her entire life. The lower city had fallen at the end of the third day and only another two days for the upper city to burn.

By dark on the fifth day, the sky was choked with black smoke, obliterating any light from the moon or stars. But the raging fires burned so brightly that it may as well have been midday. That was when they had begun their attack to the walls that separated the palace from devastation. It was night again when the first of the enemy troops swarmed through the breaches.

Most of her company had been lost during the first week. One by one they had cut down by enemy sword and arrow, whittled down by flame until only she and a handful of others remained by the time the retreat was sounded and what remained of the city’s defenders made for the safety of the upper city. Archers on the walls covered their retreat, and she was one of the last to make it through the gates before the portcullis was lowered and the heavy iron door slammed down behind it. The defenders trapped on the other side fought valiantly, ceaselessly at the gate, making certain each inch of gain for the enemy was paid for in blood. Fjorm had watched from the walls as the last of them fell, cut down by a large warrior swallowed by flame. From a distance, all she could see was the gold helm and the silver arc of his axe as it passed through the neck of the final defender. There was a cheer of triumph from the attackers as the warrior picked up the severed head of the defender by its hair, held it up as a gesture of victory.

Fjorm had tasted bile in the back of her throat, felt physically ill from the grotesque display. She was no stranger to violence, certainly not after the past week, but to see one of her comrades treated like a trophy, their corpse defiled in triumph, mocked in death, caused her stomach to lurch and her heart to sink. She had sworn an oath and would not surrender. She would make the enemy pay in lives and blood for every breath they took in her city.

The last defenses had fallen in much the same manner as the first.

Those that remained of Nifl’s guard were recalled to the Great Palace. Fjorm had been reluctant to abandon the walls before they fell, but her duty was to the Queen. She would do what she had sworn to her siblings, to Hríd that she would do. Protect their mother. She had not seen any of them since the third day of the attack. Gunnthrá and Ylgr had fled before the middle city could fall. Ylgr was believed too young to fight, and Gunnthrá, as the eldest and with the most magical power, must survive if Nifl was to have a chance against Múspell. Hríd had disappeared, and she could only assume he was dead.

Spitting the grit and smoke from her mouth, Fjorm gazed over her city one final time. The wall quaked beneath her feet as it was struck over and over by the enemy catapults. She could feel and hear the crack of stone and knew it would not be long before the final wall fell. She wrapped her fingers around Leiptr and turned on her heel. She strode past the final, weary archers that remained on the wall. It was time to join her mother in the Great Palace.

Surtr had been the first through the doors of the throne room. Made of wood carved from the heart of ancient trees and several inches thick, the doors almost immediately burned to ash around him. He cut through the rows of weary troops blocking his path with huge swings of his massive axe and those that had not been felled by his blade were scorched by his flames until Fjorm was the only thing that stood between him and the Queen. But instead of burning her or flaying her, he deftly disarmed her and swung his massive, gauntleted fist at her head.

The enormous force of the blow had thrown her several meters away to the stone floor, her vision black around the edges. The sharp pain staggered her, radiated from behind her eyes to the roots of her teeth. Before she could recover, strong arms grabbed her by the shoulders. Her head still swimming, she struggled to orient herself. “Laegjarn, hold the little bitch. She should see this.” A hand fisted in her hair at the back of her head, jerking her head back while she simultaneously felt the cold prick of metal pressed to her throat. Whoever held her was tall and strong, the angles and corners of their armor jutting painfully into Fjorm’s back.

Finally, her vision settled and focused on the King of Múspell and the Queen of Nifl. He was twice her height and as broad as a bull, yet she stared at him defiantly.

“Whatever you may do, you will never be able to destroy the spirit of Nifl.” She said evenly.

He laughed and grabbed one of her wrists, jerking her arm up high over her head. “Fire can burn through anything if it is hot enough. Let’s see how long it takes for the spirit of Nifl to catch flame.” The queen’s icy decorum lasted halfway through her index finger as he had scorched the digit to cinders.

The heat was oppressive. It was so hot that breathing felt nearly impossible, and Fjorm fought hard for every breath, sucking in each inhalation with focused effort, as if she were trying to breathe inside a furnace. It was as if she was suffocating, even several meters away from Surtr’s flames. The smoke had smelled of cooking meat and had quickly filled the throne room as fingers became hands. Fjorm had breathed it in and retched when she realized that the smoke itself was greasy with burning fat. It had coated the inside of her nostrils, her mouth, in between her teeth so she was forced to taste it as well as smell it.

The sound had been worse. It was terror personified, sadism given life. Surtr had laughed as the fire cackled and her mother had screamed. It was a sound felt as much as it was heard, the primal scream of unimaginable agony.

She had seen Surtr’s flames burn through an entire city, melting the ironwork of buildings as he strode past them, reducing beams to charred carbon as if they were straw. A human body was much more fragile than either of these, what hope was there for resistance?

Her mother screamed again as he moved to her next hand, taunting Fjorm with her helplessness, challenging her to do something, anything to save her mother. She struggled futilely against the hands that held her, her vision clouded by tears. The one behind her whispered in her ear, “Fjorm, it’s okay.” But it was drowned out by another one of her mother’s piercing howls of anguish.

“Fjorm!”

Fjorm blinked. The flames were gone, casting her in darkness. She still felt sweat running down her shoulders and back, cooling, which wasn’t right. Her skin felt too light without the weight of armor. Her hands clenched helplessly at fabric. Her heart rioted in her chest. She still could not move. Strong arms were wrapped around her waist, pinning her arms to her side.

“You’re safe, Fjorm. It’s okay.” It wasn’t Laegjarn’s voice, but it was familiar. Sharena. She was not in Nifl anymore, and nor had she been for weeks. This was Askr. She was safe.

She stilled and the arms around her slackened.

Instinctively, she threw herself out of the tent, lunging away from the opening. Her legs buckled under her, but it mattered little. She crawled the rest of the way to the wood line in time to vomit. She was only vaguely aware of her surroundings. The forest floor beneath her forearms was damp with dead leaves as she retched and spat. There was a hand on her back. The stain of hot tears on her face. The breeze of a cool night drying them.

She clutched a handful of leaves and dirt as she fell backwards, against the side of the tent. Part of her registered small details. She had collapsed next to the tent she and Sharena had shared for the past few weeks. Sharena knelt next to her, joined by another. Kiran.

But in her mind, she was still in the palace of Nifl. Still restrained with a knife to her throat being forced to watch as Surtr burned her mother to death very slowly.

The memories were powerful, and as much as she tried to focus, she couldn’t. She tried to pull one thing from her surroundings to focus on, one thing to convince herself that the present was real, but the memories were too seductive, more real than reality.

Kiran’s voice swam to her as if through a fog. “Little bird, you’re not there anymore. You’re here. It isn’t real. You’re safe now. You’re safe.” But all she could hear were the screams of her dying mother, feeling the agony of them in her chest. She slapped at the hands that grasped at her, trying to push them away, trying to fight off the panic that was grabbing at her.

“What do we do, Kiran?”

Suddenly, she wasn’t there anymore. She wasn’t anywhere. Abruptly, Askr and Nifl and the damp earth and decaying leaves were replaced by feeling. Her heart slowed, and her breathing steadied to a reasonable pace as warmth and reassurance enveloped her. She was okay. She was well beyond the reach of fear and pain, shielded against both with affection and care. She wasn’t _there_ anymore.

Gradually, Fjorm returned to herself, freed from the lingering effects of her nightmares. She opened her eyes to see only the mouth and hood of the summoner who held her face in both hands, palms pressed to her temples. The air smelled richly of ozone as magic ionized the air around them. She peeled the summoner’s hands from her face and pushed them away violently.

“Don’t you ever…” She hissed through clenched teeth and realized she was sobbing. “…you ever do that again!” She tried to blink away the tears, but they kept coming. Her eyes stung, but no amount of blinking held them back.

Kiran acted as if she had not heard her and smoothed her damp hair from her brow. “You’re okay, Fjorm.”

Intuitively, she knew the magic that had calmed her had been some sort of empathy sorcery. A magic connection that linked their minds and feelings. She had not known the summoner capable of such magic, but it should not have surprised her. It could certainly be the reason she had been receptive to Gunnthrá’s Rite of Dreams.

She had reached out with her calm and smothered the panic of Fjorm’s nightmares, easing her back into reality where the flames no longer burned. It was as if she could reach inside her dreams, manipulate them, change them so she was no longer trapped in horror. But that also meant she had seen them, felt them. They were her memories, and she did not want anyone else to feel the anguish and panic of her past. No one should have to feel that; it was hers alone.

“I—” A subtle blue light interrupted them.

Their eyes had already adjusted to the dark, so the pale light was blinding as it approached. It bled around the corner of the tent, growing steadily stronger until Robin and Alphonse appeared, the latter with a sword as naked as his torso leveled at them. The tactician’s magic snaked in visible wisps around him, like glowing water vapor, like fog rolling off the water.

Alfonse lowered his sword first, and Robin’s magic faded like smoke dissipating as they realized there was no danger.

“We’re fine. It was a nightmare.” Kiran said. “Go back to bed. We have it here.”

The men lingered until Fjorm nodded. “I’m fine. I just… the village, it burned and…” The smell of smoke and flicker of undying flames were too familiar. They had helped the villagers extinguish whatever still burned, but almost everything was lost. Their homes, crops, livelihood. Nothing could withstand Surtr’s flame.

The villagers had been grateful for their help, but it was still too little. Too futile. The powerlessness of it all was too familiar.

“Let us know if you need anything.” Robin bowed his head before backing away, dragging Alfonse with him.

The summoner offered her a hand to help her to her feet. “Come on.”

Reluctantly, she accepted it. “You’re not carrying me again.” Fjorm said defensively.

“No.” Kiran agreed dryly. “You can stand on your own feet.” Once she had pulled her up, she turned to Sharena who stood with her arms crossed over her chest, lower lip drawn between her teeth. “Can you stay with Selkie the rest of the night?” Kiran rested her hand on her neck where it met her shoulder. “It’s okay, Sharena. Fjorm is fine.”

Even in the wan light, Fjorm could see how upset the younger princess was, almost on the verge of tears. The experience had shaken her; it had not been the first nightmare Sharena had woken her from, but it had been the worst. She wondered what she had mumbled to herself, what sounds she had made that upset her so. “It’s okay, Sharena. It… was just a nightmare; I’m sorry for waking you.”

The younger princess regarded her dubiously. Without warning, she threw her arms around Fjorm, squeezed her tightly. “We will never let him hurt you again.” She said with conviction, and the ice princess nodded appreciatively into her embrace, knowing well that that was a promise that no one would be able to keep.

* * *

Once she was back in the tent, Fjorm drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Kiran slid into the tent next to her, stretched out on Sharena’s bedroll which was far too small. The tent was barely long enough for her to stretch out comfortably. She folded her arms behind her head. “You’re not going to sleep like that are you?”

Fjorm snorted softly. She released her knees and reached over and tugged at the edge of her hood, not to pull it back but to indicate it. “Are you going to sleep like that?” She wondered if the summoner really did sleep with the hood of her robe up, or if she had pulled it up when she had left her tent. There was still no explanation for why she wore it constantly, and if the other Heroes knew why, they had not shared it with her.

Sighing heavily as if she were indulging a ludicrous request, the summoner lifted her head, unfolded her arms, and pulled the hood back. In the dim light, she still could not make out the color of her hair, only that it wasn’t blonde, but at least she could see her eyes, her face. “There. Come lay down.” She patted the bedroll beside her, and Fjorm complied. It never felt awkward when she and Sharena crawled into the tent together. On particularly cold nights, the younger princess would inch closer until they were practically on top of one another. This was different though, and she laid on her back, hands folded on her chest. “Come here.”

“What?”

“There is no shame in accepting comfort.” Kiran said softly and rolled onto her side. Lifting her arm, she made an opening for her. “Come here.” She repeated, and Fjorm obeyed. She rolled onto her side and scooted back so that her back was against the summoner’s front. An arm fell across her waist and pulled her so that they were snugly fitted against one another. “You are safe here.”

Fjorm believed her. She felt safe. It was as if Kiran’s body was a shield, protecting her from any threats. It felt so natural for them to be this way, as if they were two halves of a whole fitted together, as if this was a well-practiced ritual between them. It was so familiar. Kiran’s chin rested on top of Fjorm’s head, so she felt the vibration of her voice when she spoke. She was right, it was different from Sharena. Blood roared in her ears, her heart sang at the closeness, but still there was that nagging feeling.

“I feel like you know me. Like you’ve always known me.” The ice princess admitted, reached down, took her hand, brought it up to her chest, clutched it there.

The summoner was quiet for so long that Fjorm thought she had fallen asleep. “I promise to keep you safe, girl.” She said eventually.

Her heart felt dangerously light as it tripped over itself in her chest at the word “girl.” Surtr had called her girl before, but it had been aggressive, condescending, an insult implying that she was not worthy of being addressed by name. This was different. It was oddly affectionate, perhaps even a bit possessive. It felt like a term of endearment, which almost made Fjorm dizzy.

There was something strange between them. A closeness that should not be there. They had scarcely known one another a few weeks, yet there was an inexplicable familiarity to their interactions. There was a trust that should take time to build, an intimacy that was usually born from shared memories, experiences, vulnerabilities. They had not had the time to develop such a bond, yet there it was. Despite the curiosity still eating at her, she did not ponder it long. The trauma of her night terror had left her exhausted, coupled with the warmth and comfort of the summoner beside her, around her, she fell into a dreamless asleep.

* * *

There was something in the fever of battle that Kiran loved. Too much of her life since she had been summoned had been war. She abhorred violence and its consequences, but oftentimes they were often unavoidable. Sometimes the foe was so detestable that it became a necessity. Diplomacy and compassion sometimes failed. In her mind, she knew every alternative to violence must be sought, explored. But within her, deep within, where her most primal and feral self lurked, battle was a joy.

Fighting was two bodies engaged in coordinated movement. To fight, one must have an acute awareness of the opponent’s body: the subtle shifts in their breath, the telling tense of a particular muscle that betrayed a thrust or parry or dodge, the inadvertent dip of their blade that told they were tiring, the crunch of rocks under foot that might impact the stability of their stance. In those moments, nothing else mattered but one another.

They moved in concert with each other, each responding to the other’s actions. One swung, the other blocked. One stepped backwards, and the other stepped forwards. One leapt, and the other was there to meet them. If both fighters were good, the awareness of one another led to a fight that almost appeared choreographed. Two bodies moving in synchronization with such a profound awareness of one another made it as intimate as a dance.

It was a mindless, animalistic pleasure. The stretch of muscles, the regulated pant of breath, the uninhibited exertion of force, pure visceral action. The singularity of purpose. Fighting was not as simple and crude as violence. It was not a brutish exercise of physical power. It was so much deeper than that. It was a connection with another person as intimate as any Kiran ever experienced, even if the end goal of it was to end that person’s life.

It had been clear almost immediately, that despite having no memory of her past, that Kiran was fighter. Evidenced by the vast catalogue of scars adorning her skin, her body was born to war. It came as naturally to her as walking or breathing. Her mind did not have the memory of her past, but her muscles did. It was the time she most felt like herself, even if she had no memory of who that self was.

The love of combat seemed directly opposed to her detestation of violence. If forced to fight, she did so without hate or malice. She never experienced pleasure in causing another person pain and strove not to cause unnecessary suffering. She wondered if her previous self had felt the same inner conflict, had difficulty reconciling the two. She attempted to reassure herself that a hunter might not enjoy killing his prey, but he was not wrong to take pleasure in executing his profession well.

The last of the regular Múspell lancers crumpled to the ground at her feet. He had allowed her too close, a lethal mistake for someone that fought with a long weapon. She had slashed at his thigh where his plate armor did not cover, and her blade was very sharp. It sliced through leather, skin, past the congealed yellow layer of fat, through muscle that parted like neatly trimmed meat, down to the bone, severing veins and arteries on along the way. His femoral artery had been opened, and blood pumped with alarming force as he writhed on the ground. It puddled in the crushed grass and turned the ground muddy beneath her feet.

He would bleed out in minutes, but she would not let him suffer that long. She drove the tip of her blade through the gap in his armor between the collar of his cuirass and helm, severing his spinal cord. Withdrawing the blade, she glanced over her shoulder where Fjorm knelt. At the moment, the gate was little more than an empty stone archway seemingly part of the stone ruins scattered across the otherwise empty field. “How much longer?”

“Not much!” She replied absently, clearly focused on her task. Too much time had elapsed since she had last come through the gate, and the magic holding it open had faded. They had been forced to defend their position in front of it while the ice princess performed the rite for it to reopen.

The rest of their party finished dispatching their opponents. Sharena had driven the head of her spear through the eye-slots of an enclosed helm, effectively ending the knight with remarkable precision. Alfonse had already pulled his blade free of his opponent, and Robin clenched his fist, halting the crackle of lightning that echoed from his fingertips. Selkie wiped the blood from her mouth and chin with the back of her hand and grinned.

None of their opponents had been heroes. They had all been Múspell soldiers, those that their king considered expendable, sent ahead to keep them occupied while Surtr and his entourage advanced on their position.

He was enormous in a way that seemed to defy possibility. If Kiran was tall than Surtr was a true giant, but more than that, he was broad, so wide that he probably could not pass through a standard door if he was clad in armor. Flames erupted from his footsteps leaving a trail of smoldering ash in his wake. Fire seemed to dance around him, peeking from the gaps in his armor, in between his fingers, and even seemingly his eyes. On his shoulder rested an axe that must have been as long as Fjorm was tall with a head that spanned at least a meter.

Behind him trailed Veronica and her sycophantic knight as well as another girl she had never seen before flanked by a few mages and soldiers. It was not a significant force, but from what she had seen of Surtr’s abilities, he did not need one.

“Heading to Nifl, are you?” His voice was thunder in the empty field. He laughed. “Do you care for your people so little that you’d abandon them, prince?” Alfonse had regrouped with the rest of their party beside her, and she felt him tense. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his jaw clench. “Tell me, little Askran prince. Do you see that town over there?” He used his massive axe to point across the field, across the pastures where cows grazed oblivious or indifferent to the conflict. Just a few kilometers away was a small town they had passed through on their way to gate. “Is it not filled with Askran citizens?” He asked, almost conversationally.

Alfonse did not reply. He only glowered at the Múspell tyrant defiantly, determined not to be baited. But Kiran sensed the misgivings of the two Askran heirs, their uncertainty. While they had both seen much of war, neither had yet to witness true atrocity. It was if they both sensed that that was about to change.

“Abandon them. I don’t care.” He grinned, his eyes burning with delight. “But if you do, I will burn that town to the ground. Men, women, children… One by one, they will burn alive. I promise you I will do this.” He had stopped just a few meters away from them, close enough that they could feel the scorching heat that radiated from him. His entourage waited dutifully behind him for instruction. “Let me tell you something you might not know. Being burned alive is one of the most painful ways to die. Is that not right, girl?” His grin widened as Fjorm abandoned the gate and took a position beside Kiran, holding her lance in a low defensive position.

He did not seem surprised to see the ice princess healed, capable of fighting after such a devastating wound. In fact, he seemed delighted.

When Fjorm did not reply, the flame king hefted his axe back to his shoulder. “First, the skin burns off. Then the muscles themselves begin to fall apart as they cook. In the end, they all wail… ‘Please… Kill me! Please!’ Ask the girl.” It was clear that he derived a perverse pleasure from tormenting others, every word carefully crafted to wound, but he seemed to relish taunting the princess of Nifl. “She sat by and watched while I scorched her mother. Tell them how your mother screamed and begged for death.” Kiran looked over the younger woman’s head to Alfonse.

The flame king’s attention was solely focused on Fjorm. And so long as he was fixated on her, he would not see what was happening elsewhere. She nodded once, and he blinked in acknowledgment. It was an opening that they should not waste.

The ice princess’s muscles bunched and tensed, like a cat’s right before it pounced. Anguish clearly etched on every feature of her face. “Don’t.” Kiran commanded quietly, trying to keep her focus evenly split between Surtr and her. Her knuckles were white where they clenched around the shaft of her lance. “Fjorm.” She said, more sharply this time, and the girl relaxed just enough that Kiran was reasonably certain she was no longer preparing to charge the king of Múspell.

“Listen to your new keeper, girl.” Surtr sneered, enjoying the reaction he was eliciting from Fjorm. “We both know you’ll only fail again.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in mocking disapproval. “You are so weak. Are you going to watch again as I burn these new friends of yours to ash?”

Her hand shot out, catching the collar of Fjorm’s hauberk just in time as she launched herself forward. Kiran jerked her back with more force than was necessary, causing the ice princess to stumble backwards into her. Silent tears streaked her cheeks as she struggled to break away from Kiran’s grasp, blinded by the anguish that Surtr kept prodding. The wounds he picked at were fresh, still raw. He knew precisely what to say to hurt her the worst.

But they could not afford a fight, not now. Surtr was too strong for them to face head on, too invulnerable. And flanked by a dozen troops, any direct confrontation would be ill-fated and over swiftly. Kiran jerked again on her hauberk, harder this time, leaning down to hiss in her ear. “Stop, or so help me…” She let the threat hang vague and unspoken, and finally Fjorm stopped trying to twist free, but her breath still came in ragged pants driven by fury.

Surtr laughed, a deep laugh that emanated from deep in his chest. A humorless, cruel laugh. “You should keep a leash on her, Summoner.” She barely suppressed a shudder as his empty flame-red eyes settled on her. “Nameless, faceless, kinless, fighting in wars that do not concern you. If you insist on fighting, why not join the winning side?”

Hand still fisted in the chain links of the ice princess’s hauberk, she pulled the younger woman behind her, using her body as a barrier between them before releasing her hold. “Go.” She could not take her eyes of Surtr, not for a moment, so she was forced to rely on hope that Fjorm understood her intentions. “I already have,” She spat back at him. She brought her hand back to the hilt of her sword, holding it steady with both hands again.

Surtr scoffed. “What a waste of talent. You will burn with the rest of these weaklings.” For the first time, he turned and acknowledged his underlings, who appeared bored by this exchange, as if they had seen it play out countless times before. “Ride for the village, corral the people. They will burn.”

“No!” Sharena yelled, but Alfonse cut her short by placing an arm in front of her. “But—They will die, Alfonse.” She pleaded with her brother, searching his face for some answer to this madness.

“All of Askr will burn if we stay.” He told her gently. “I will leave my people behind and go to Nifl.” He said in a louder voice, using his sword to point at the tyrant of flames. “But I swear to you, Surtr, we will defeat you.”

And finally came the cry that Kiran was hoping for. “The gate is open!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If y'all wanted to stroke my ego by leaving me a comment, I totally would not mind.


	5. Blood and Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment was both frozen and aflame. Fjorm’s entire body felt warm, and her breath hitched when Kiran finally opened her slate gray eyes. The snow was falling in earnest now and several flakes had gathered on the summoner’s eyelashes. They stared, gazed at one another for what felt like an eternity, and both women wondered if they shared the same ache, the same magnetism that made each want to crush her lips against the other’s.

They had traipsed through the snow for what seemed like hours before they found a suitable campsite, tucked away in a cave that no animal hibernated in. The tactician had checked by chucking a few lightning balls through the mouth of the cave. It was hard to tell exactly how deep it went, but the weather was turning, and their options were limited. Their escape into Nifl had taken longer than any of them had planned.

Alfonse’s quick thinking had saved the villagers, sending a signal of colored smoke that alerted them to the danger, gave them the chance to flee. Surtr had been too preoccupied with tormenting the ice princess to notice the column of smoke rising behind the prince. It was a small victory, probably insignificant in the scheme of deaths that had already happened and were yet to occur.

But it was still a triumph. Yet Fjorm could not find it within herself to take joy from it. She helped Robin build a fire while the prince and princess spread out bedrolls under Feh’s watchful, judgmental gaze. Selkie was frolicking through the snow, hunting something to bring back to roast over the fire.

When she had finished, the summoner had squeezed her shoulder on her way out of the cave, a subtle indication for her to follow. Fjorm thought about ignoring her or pretending she had not understood, but she knew Kiran well enough now to know she was not easily discouraged and would probably return to retrieve her.

Intellectually, she knew that she had no chance against Surtr, not one on one. She had let him goad her into losing her composure. Every word that came from his mouth was an instrument of torture. She knew she had failed her mother, her sisters, her brother, her kingdom. It gnawed at her every moment, a constant pit of dread in her stomach, a weight of guilt on her shoulders. She _was_ weak; he was not wrong. But she could not bear to hear her own thoughts echoed in his voice.

She knew she should be grateful to Kiran for stopping her from charging blindly into a fight she was sure to lose. It would have only turned into yet another failing of hers, and Kiran had only been looking out for her well-being. But no one had ever handled her so roughly, without any heed of her comfort, not even as a child. She was a princess of Nifl, a cherished daughter of a peaceful, non-violent kingdom.

Being yanked around by her collar and threatened made her feel like an errant child in need of correction. What was worse was that she _felt_ like she needed correcting, a firm hand to guide her when she lost her composure, to rein her back in. If she was not capable of keeping her emotions and actions under control, someone needed to help her do so. Not only for her sake, but for the rest of their party. But even as she thought it was necessary, appropriate even, she resented the summoner for it.

When they were a fair distance from the camp, well out of hearing range of the cave, Kiran stopped and faced her. The wind around them was picking up, ruining the winter silence, a certain sign that a blizzard was on its way. “I need to know I do not have to worry about you on the battlefield.”

“I am not your concern.” She replied icily.

“Don’t act petulant, Fjorm.” Kiran dropped down to a single knee in front of her so that they were closer in height. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Just as she had the first time Kiran had scolded her, she flushed with the same curious heat that was neither embarrassment nor anger. Well, not wholly either. “I am not yours to command.” She said flatly. Kneeling, the summoner was just shorter than herself. Having to look down at her felt wrong.

“We have had this discussion once before, and I do not like repeating myself.” Kiran’s voice had taken on a hard edge of disapproval and… disappointment? The statement was somewhere between a warning and an admonishment, and it caused her heart to flutter rapidly in her chest and her pulse to thunder in her ears. Fjorm dropped her eyes to the ground so the summoner could not see the conflict within her as excitement, fear, shame, and curiosity warred for dominance with no clear victor.

It was as if Fjorm had failed to meet some standard that they both knew she was capable of meeting. Or, worse, as if she had not even bothered to try. What was clear was that she had fallen short of some expectation of the summoner, and the thought of it was like a tightening vice in the ice princess’s chest. And Kiran’s sternness only wound it even tighter.

“I am not a hero,” Fjorm’s voice unexpectedly broke on the word. The summoner had just been added to the long list of people she had failed, and it wrecked her. “Were you not listening to Surtr, was he not clear?”

“We are not the sum of our failures. You have endured any perceived failure and yet continue to fight.” She placed a hand on either shoulder, her tone softening. “Your will is unbreakable. Regardless of what you think.” It did not feel that way. She felt as though her will broke ages ago, and she only kept fighting because she did not know what else to do. It broke every time Surtr mocked her. It broke with every failing now, no matter how slight. It broke over and over and over, but there was no other option but to go on, keep fighting until she was ended. At the very least, she could make her death mean something.

“What I cannot and will not accept from you is you behaving foolishly because you believe that dying for others is the only value your life has.” The summoner continued, suddenly firm again.

Her vision had blurred, but she blinked several times and her eyes cleared but still stung. She was unsure what prompted them, the kindness of Kiran’s encouragement or the harshness of her reproach. “I—"

“No.” The older woman hushed her. “Do I need to worry about you every time we take to the battlefield? Because your actions affect all of us.”

“No, Kiran.” She whispered, simultaneously ashamed and strangely relieved. It was as if being held accountable for her actions somehow alleviated some of the burden of her previous failures.

“You have suffered so much, and Surtr seems intent on making you suffer ever more.” One hand cupped her cheek, the callous of her thumb pleasantly rough against her skin. She instinctually tilted into the touch. “If you feel overwhelmed again, all you need do is squeeze my hand or arm twice, and I’ll know so I can help. You do not have to do any of this alone. Promise me you will do this for me.”

The sternness has been replaced by plaintiveness, and Fjorm quickly nodded to reassure the summoner. “I promise.”

“Good. Because _I_ made a promise. I made you the same promise I made Gunnthrá, that you would be kept safe. And I will keep that promise.” Her lips quirked up in a faint smirk. “Even if I have to fight you every step of the way.”

They were silent. The wind was picking up and the first few flakes had begun to swirl around them, carried on the wind. They gathered in the folds of Kiran’s robes, accumulating faster than they could melt. A few landed on her face, melted and ran down her brow and cheeks. The cold and snow never bothered the ice princess. Tentatively, Fjorm reached forward. Her fingers stopped under the edge of her hood, moved upwards to pull it away from her face. Kiran grabbed her wrists, one in each hand, stopping her. “Please.”

If asked to explain, she would not have been able to. Whatever had transpired between herself and the summoner had been undeniably intimate, and she needed to see her face. Needed to gaze into her eyes and know that she was real. “Please, Kiran.” She repeated.

Reluctantly, the summoner released her wrists and allowed her hood to be pushed back, revealing her face. Her eyes were closed, shut as if as long as they were closed, her face was still hidden. Her hair was red, thick waves of scarlet that fell unbound to her shoulders. It was not orange, but dark red, the color of drying blood, mahogany, with streaks of brighter red and duller rust. It was every shade and hue from almost black to bright crimson. It was the color of wine, currants, garnets, cherries, layers blending in with one another. Fascinated, Fjorm ran the fingers of both hands through her hair starting at her temples and ending at the base of her skull, marveling as the crimson locks slipped through her fingers. Initially, Kiran flinched at the unexpected touch but then relaxed.

Never had the summoner appeared so at peace. Her eyes were still shut, lips slightly parted, head tilted back so her throat was exposed, the steady pulse of her carotid visible under taut skin. With Fjorm’s fingers tangled in her hair, she made a faint noise in the back of her throat, a hum of appreciation. It was the first time she saw her vulnerable, open. She moved her hands to frame her face, fingertips resting delicately on her cheekbones. Normally, she was always so impassive, so meticulously stoic, so carefully distant.

But now it appeared she might unravel under her fingertips, and Fjorm realized the warmth pooling in her chest and settling much lower had been gathering for the entirety of their conversation, and that warmth was _want_. She wanted to keep raking her fingers through the summoner’s thick hair. She wanted to please her, to ensure that disappointment never colored her words again. She wanted to keep hearing her soft noises of appreciation. She wanted the security and care that accompanied her sternness. She wanted to watch her face, naked of hood or façade, free of burden or preoccupation. She wanted to part her lips further with her tongue.

The moment was both frozen and aflame. Fjorm’s entire body felt warm, and her breath hitched when Kiran finally opened her slate gray eyes. The snow was falling in earnest now and several flakes had gathered on the summoner’s eyelashes. They stared, gazed at one another for what felt like an eternity, and both women wondered if they shared the same ache, the same magnetism that made each want to crush her lips against the other’s.

“Come on, girl.” The summoner abruptly stood, and Fjorm’s hands fell away from her face. The moment was gone, but the ache remained, and Fjorm could not stifle the frustrated whine that started in her throat. “The storm is upon us.” The hood was pulled back up, dark red hair tucked back into the shadows. 

* * *

“Surrender Askrans!”

They skidded to a halt on the edge of the forest. The two Múspell generals had finally caught up with them. They had tracked them for days, dogging their steps. They were relentless, forcing the Askrans to only sleep a few hours at a time before they had to flee again. A constant cycle of sleeping, running, resting, running again. They were all exhausted, including Kiran. The only place left to run was into the forest. They could fight now or keep running.

“By whose order?” Alfonse shouted back, his sword already drawn and held ready, and Kiran agreed with his decision to stay and fight. If they kept running, they risked fatiguing themselves to the point that they would be useless. They had managed to whittle down the Múspell numbers with a few small skirmishes, so only a half dozen or so troops faced them. It should be a manageable fight, not easy or certain, but evenly matched.

The wyvern rider might be a bit of a challenge, though. “I am Laegjarn, a general of Múspell. By authority of my father, King Surtr, I have chage of this region of Nifl.” She had a voice made to carry across the battlefield, one of authority. “Though we may be enemies, I commend your bravery, warriors of Askr. But for now, you may rest. Ultimately you cannot triumph. Our forces are too large, and Surtr’s power is far too great.”

The distance between the two factions was not large, almost uncomfortably close. Close enough that she could see the wyvern’s hot breath rising in steam from his nostrils but still far enough that shouting was necessary and normal speaking voices would not be heard. Kiran could not quite make out the details of the Laegjarn’s face, but her voice was young and confident. Her wyvern tossed his head, clearly eager to leave the snow he had landed on. “Submit quietly and you will not be harmed. I swear it.”

“Holy hell. Is she really Surtr’s daughter?” Alfonse swore under his breath.

The ice princess stepped between the summoner and the prince. “Yes. She has integrity. Ever since our defeat, she has treated the citizens of Nifl with respect.” Fjorm stared fixedly where the enemy forces had gathered, her eyes locked onto the enemy general as if she were unable to look away. “She may not share her father’s cruelty, but she follows his orders.” Absently, she rubbed her throat as if it pained her. “Do not drop your guard.”

The Askran princess stood behind them with Robin. “Well, at least the apple fell far from the tree.” She said cheerfully as if that had any impact on the outcome of this battle.

“General of Múspell! I thank you for your offer, fairly made.” Alfonse called back to the flame tyrant’s daughter. “We have, however, no choice but to decline.”

“I see.” Laegjarn seemed genuinely disappointed. “You leave us with no choice but to carry out our father’s orders.”

“Our?” Kiran frowned.

“The smaller one with the pink hair is her younger sister.” Fjorm explained. Beside the wyvern stood a girl who could not yet possibly be an adult. Kiran felt a wave of revulsion for the king of Múspell and was surprised that her disdain could run even deeper.

Most of the heroes, almost all of them, were young. The grand majority of them in the early years of their twenties. A few were younger, like Sharena and Selkie, but they were at least of age, even if Selkie was barely so. But this younger daughter of Surtr barely appeared to be on the outer edge of puberty, a child forced to play at war.

“That could work in our favor.” Robin said thoughtfully. Kiran followed the ice princess’s gaze across the field to the Múspell general who held their forces back. They probably assumed that the Askrans were discussing surrender, huddled together as if in deep council. “One of us should attack the younger sister to draw Laegjarn’s attention.”

“I will attack the sister.” Kiran said. “Sharena—”

“No.” Fjorm said quickly, then ducked her head as if apologizing for the interruption. “I would fight Laegjarn.” She looked to Kiran expectantly, as if waiting for permission. The summoner pressed her lips together and gave a half nod of approval.

* * *

Even if she had wanted to, Kiran could not have brought herself to kill the younger sister. Up close, she appeared even younger, slighter. But it was clear she would not surrender either, so she was forced to let the girl tire herself out. Every swing or thrust of her sword was easily blocked, parried, or evaded. It did not take long for her to exhaust herself and grow sloppy. She left a wide opening, and Kiran ended the fight by kicking her hard in the stomach just below the diaphragm.

The girl had sprawled to the snow, choking on her own breath. It was a carefully placed blow to incapacitate without lasting harm. She might struggle to breathe for a few moments and probably felt like she was dying, but after a few minutes she’d be bruised but otherwise fine.

“Retreat while you can.” Kiran loomed over her and sheathed her sword. “Go.” The clamor and din of battle had quieted telling her that the rest of the soldiers of Múspell were either dead or already retreating and that there was no one left to fight. The child wheezed, clutching her middle. She glowered at Kiran as she fumbled to get her feet under her. “Go. I am certain you’ll have another chance to kill me.” She waited, watching her stumble through the deep snow, until she was out of sight.

She turned to survey the aftermath. Three bodies, one bearing the beautiful spider-webbing of veins and capillaries ruptured by tremendous electrical current. Hot blood had melted the snow in one large patch, far too much for a human. The wyvern. But he was nowhere to be seen so it had not been an immediately fatal injury at least.

Now that the danger was over, Feh circled the field as if making certain before landing on Kiran’s shoulder.

Fjorm stood a dozen meters away, the tip of Leiptr under the Múspell general’s chin. The dramatically shorter and smaller woman had managed to unseat Laegjarn from her mount, knocking her to the hard-packed snow where she now lay, half-way sitting with the weight of her upper body on her elbows and forearms.

Now closer, she could see how pretty this daughter of Surtr was. Tall and somewhere between slender and lanky. Her hair was a curious mint green which surprisingly did not clash with eyes the color of blood. A further inconsistency given her parentage was the complete absence of malice or cruelty in her expression or gaze. Even with the tip of Fjorm’s lance a hair away from nicking her carotid.

“I was not prepared for your strength, Princess Fjorm.” Laegjarn said appreciatively as if they had been engaged in a friendly spar and was admiring her ability and technique.

Robin put an arm in front of Alfonse, preventing him from advancing too close to the two princesses. He was always more apt at discerning sensitive situations. Selkie and Sharena stopped behind them, allowing a comfortable buffer of space that only Kiran violated. But she did not interfere, she stood behind the ice princess, just close enough for her to know that she was there.

“You are _nothing_ like him.” Fjorm said through clenched teeth, as if it were an accusation.

The flame princess tilted her head to the side as if perplexed. “He is my father.”

“But you are so much better than that.” It almost sounded as if the ice princess was pleading with her. There was a familiarity between them, an awareness of one another that was too deep for this to be their first meeting.

Laegjarn’s expression and voice hardened. “Do not presume that you know anything about me, princess.” She scoffed. “We would both go to any lengths to protect our siblings. You are privileged that the measures you have had to take fit within your moral and ethical boundaries.” She lifted her chin, pushing her throat forward slightly until the razor tip of the lance pressed into her skin. A single drop of blood beaded and ran down her throat, disappearing beneath the plate of her cuirass. “I have not been so fortunate.”

Withdrawing her lance, Fjorm planted the butt of it deep into the snow for it to stand on its own. She took a step forward, so she was practically straddling the taller princess’s legs and extended a hand to her. “Yet that has not stopped you from doing the right thing before.”

A protest died on Alfonse’s lips as Kiran held up a hand for them to hold even as the rest of their party visibly tensed, tightening grips on their weapons and edging forward. Laegjarn considered the offered hand for a long moment before accepting it. “Yes, but it was not I that suffered the consequences for it.” Fjorm pulled her to her feet and the two stood dangerously close as if silently challenging one another, their hands still clasped.

Finally, Fjorm released her hand. She had to tilt her head back to meet the other princess’s eyes. “I will repay the kindness you showed me once. You are free to leave this place.” She took a step back as if to emphasize her statement.

“Even though it may mean I have to kill you next time we meet?” The question was soft, so soft that Kiran was certain that only she and Fjorm heard it.

“Like I said: that has not stopped _you_ from doing the right thing before.” Though there was a smile in the ice princess’s voice, the words were humorless. “Go.”

“What—” Sharena started to interrupt but fell silent when Alfonse dug an elbow into her side where her armor did not cover. It was clear to most of them that there was more to what was transpiring than any of them were privy to. It might be dangerous, it might be absurd, but Kiran trusted Fjorm had her reasons.

Laegjarn took a single step back and seemed to notice the rest of the party for the first time. She executed a sharp quarter turn and bowed to the Askran prince and princess. “I underestimated you, Askrans. Your tactics outclass mine. You are both powerful and skilled in battle.” The compliment was sincere, and she turned to face Fjorm again. “For now… I’ll take my leave of you.”

Fjorm nodded, and Laegjarn peered over her head to Kiran and acknowledged her with a resolute bow of her head that seemed both respectful and imploring. But she had turned her back to all of them before the summoner had an opportunity to puzzle over it. She strode away at a confident, unhurried pace, as if utterly unconcerned to turn her back on an enemy. The daughter of Surtr was impressive in a way her father could never hope to be.

When she finally disappeared behind a drift of snow, Kiran eased forward and put a hand on the ice princess’s shoulder.

“I could have died when Surtr captured my mother and I.” Fjorm explained without turning to look at any of them, her gaze still fixed on the spot where the other princess had been. “She restrained me while Surtr tortured my mother to death. But while he was still preoccupied with her final torment, she let me go, released me. It was a kindness I felt obligated to repay.”

When the ice princess turned and faced her, she walked straight into the summoner, hiding her face in the front of her robes as if concealing herself from a memory. Caught off guard, Kiran hesitated and then wrapped an arm around her.

* * *

The gardens behind Vǫlsungr were Kiran’s favorite place in the spring. It was rare that she was ever in Vǫlsungr for any significant amount of time, so she took advantage of the gardens whenever she could.

There was a spot towards the back, nearest the north wall. There was one large, ancient oak tree with sprawling branches in the far corner, flanked by long flower beds of vivid towering plants like foxglove, sunflowers, the bright blue delphinium flowers. Larkspur and hollyhock undulated in a breeze that carried the scent of the lavender that trimmed the beds. Peonies and cottage pinks hid amongst the taller flowers, the latter luring a dazzling score of butterflies. The walls were covered with ivy and climbing roses that were in beautiful powdery pink and dusty white bloom.

It gave the area a wild, overgrown aesthetic that Kiran loved. It was barely controlled chaos, a riot of colors and sweet smells. It was also quite private, hidden by a row of tall hedges that the flowers had overtaken, often forgotten, quiet. It was a like a glen, tucked away in secret. If fairies existed, this would be the part of the garden they would call home.

It was midafternoon, her favorite time of day to spend in her little glen because the area was bathed in sunlight. She stretched out on the soft carpet of grass, arms folded behind her head, warm sun smiling on her face. She could just make out the babble of a nearby fountain over the quiet rustle of the breeze through the branches of the tree. She felt languid, boneless. The warm sun rendering her inert like a lizard sunning itself on a rock.

“The rumors say you defeated not one but two of Múspell’s generals.” Gunnthrá lifted her head from her shoulder but then set it back down again, almost nuzzling into the summoner’s neck.

“Hm.” Kiran made a noncommittal sound of acknowledgment.

“Word of your victory is spreading.” The oldest princess of Nifl continued. She lay on her side, one leg bent and cast over Kiran’s hips. She fiddled with the gold fastenings of her robe, a slender hand right over the summoner’s heart. Her voice was an intimate, breathy whisper. Every word that fell from her lips sounded like a promise. “Even to where I have concealed myself.”

It had been so long since she had basked in the sun with nothing to concern her but maybe a few distant rainclouds in the sky. The last thing Kiran wanted to talk about was Múspell. Or anything really. She did not want to talk at all. She did not even want this dream. Just like a normal dream, she did not have any control over these dreams either.

As if sensing her disquiet, Gunnthrá reached through the front of her robes, under the deep v-neck of her tunic, to place a delicate hand on her bare chest, over Kiran’s heart. “I look forward to the day when we can finally meet.”

“Ah!” Kiran rolled away from her and onto her knees. “Balls of a fucking dragon god, Gunnthrá.” She gasped, her heart beating rapidly. She put her hand over her heart as if she could rub the ghost of her touch away. “You have to stop.” She climbed to her feet, hand still in her tunic.

“Oh, Kiran, my sweet Kiran.” Gunnthrá sat up and drew her knees under her, sitting back on her heels. Her lips smiled into that kind, indulgent smile she always wore. “I can't speak to just anyone using the Rite of Dreams. Once I establish that link, I can speak to just one person, for my entire life... And to make that connection, I have to pledge myself to them from the very depths of my heart. When we first spoke, I knew almost nothing of you... Yet I pledged myself to you without hesitation.”

In those first dreams, Kiran had always awoken silently crying from the tenderness that Gunnthrá had shown her. They had always felt like stolen moments between forbidden lovers. But now they felt wrong, incorrect, and Kiran wondered if tenderness had been the real reason she had awoken crying from those dreams. Maybe they had always felt wrong to her. “Yes, but I was never given a choice in this connection. Your spiritual divine link was never made with my consent.” She argued.

Somewhere above her, a hawk circled leaving Gunnthrá’s face momentarily in shadow. “As long as we both live, we will be bound, my darling Kiran.”

“Stop.” She wanted to snap but settled for clenching her fists. “Even if we _are_ bound, even if I have no say in it, I do have a choice. And your sister will always be my choice.”

The princess’s smile did not falter, her expression did not change as she climbed to her feet. With every step she took towards her, Kiran took a step back. “You know she has no memory of you.”

“Does that matter?” When Kiran could retreat no further, Gunnthrá stopped short half a step from being pressed against her. The masonry of the stone walls scraped her shoulders as the summoner pushed herself flush against it.

“Just because you have chosen her, does not mean she will choose you.”

The memory of Fjorm and Laegjarn on the battlefield immediately swept back into her mind. They were enemies, but the line between them was very faint, and that was clear to anyone who observed them. Anything might happen to blur that line. If Surtr was defeated. If Múspell and Nifl found peace through an alliance of marriage. If fire was found to be a preferable complement to ice. Nothing was guaranteed, and Kiran was surprised to find how very little that mattered to her.

“She may not, but that does not mean that I would ever choose _you_.” Kiran pushed back her hood and met her gaze. “I care about you, Gunnthrá. But you can’t keep… I can’t…” She closed her eyes as she stumbled; it was so rare she spoke without the hood covering her face that she felt naked, exposed without it. When she had collected her thoughts, she licked her lips and opened her eyes. “It was never you, Gunnthrá.”

The eldest princess of Nifl’s smile never wavered, her expression never changed no matter what Kiran had said. Her lips were still upturned in that kind, benevolent smile. She never reacted. But she did take a step back, the first indication that she had ever truly heard what the summoner said.

“You will find me to the west. I will await you in the sanctuary at Snjárhof.” She said neutrally and melted away into the bright, blinding sunlight.

As the light faded, Kiran was left alone in the waning light of a late spring afternoon. Exhaling slowly and shakily, she drew her hood back up to cover her eyes and face and willed herself to wake from this dream.


	6. The True Quarry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiran’s shoulders slumped forward, and she rested her head against Fjorm’s shoulder as if accepting the solace offered. Fjorm felt the taller woman shake her head as she tightened her embrace. “You are the one choice I have made for myself, little bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry for the delay in posting this. One, I hate transition chapters. They never feel complete to me. Two, I think that this is where I depart from canon. Not significantly but while the pacing is great for a game, it is super frustrating for a story. So, rather than bore y'all with a bunch of crap that I'm pretty sure you don't want to read about because I sure as hell don't want to write about, we will be glossing over some stuff.

At the top of the world, there were only three colors: white, black, and blue.

In the alpine, the only thing that grew were snow drifts and glaciers. Even the hardy spruce and fir trees that flourished where deciduous aspen and cottonwood could not, did not cross the visible timberline. The ground was permanently frozen, and the air was too cold to accommodate normal vegetation. Even the scrubby, moss-like grasses and rock-clinging lichens of the tundra, while outlasting the trees and shrubs, surrendered to this inhospitable environment.

With no vegetation to eat, there were no animals. Not even birds flew this high. The sky was empty except for clouds.

The white of the snow and ice was pristine, perfect. It was a white unmuddied by footprints or animal tracks. The only thing that disturbed the snow was the wind. At lower elevations, glaciers were a flawed white marred by the pale blue of compressed snow. Part of their beauty were the variations of blue and white and crystal. Here, they possessed their own surreal beauty. The glaciers were completely opaque white, blindingly beautiful in the sun, the surface glistening slick.

Only the black rock of the mountain disrupted the absolute white. Jagged blades of stone cutting through the snow, stabbing towards the deep blue sky. Crags erupted from the earth, brindled white and black by snow and rock. This was the dichotomy of the high mountains, black and white.

It was an alien landscape, a place where humans did not belong. Yet at the same time, it was the most beautiful place Kiran had ever seen.

She stood on rocky overhang the overlooked the east. The pattern of snow and rock was repeated as far as she could see, shorter mountains capped in snow, glaciers flowing like rivers in the valleys and couloirs between them. Its splendor was cold and arresting, paralyzing Kiran with the subtle serenity of emptiness. There was an eerie beauty to the vast barrenness as if the world was as frozen as the glaciers, as if everything had stopped, and she alone remained.

There was no war at the top of the mountains. No conflict. No discord. It was so removed from the world below that she was certain this had been the only time she witnessed peace since being summoned. Perhaps in her life, yet there was something familiar about the alpine region, not the land itself but the feeling it elicited from her. Probably the familiarity from a memory she did not remember and a life she had no knowledge of. She did not want to begin their descent into the land below, back to the chaos, back to the world made imperfect by humanity.

“It is said this is where the heart of the ice dragon Nifl beats.” Fjorm appeared next to her, followed her gaze to the vista that stretched endlessly in front of them.

Kiran nodded and ran her hand up and down the smaller woman’s back. It was a gesture of affection she was not conscious of until she had already done it. Touch was becoming increasingly natural between them, dangerously so. It was easy to run her fingers through the smaller woman’s blond hair or to rest her hand on her shoulder. The night they had spent together after Fjorm’s night terror had been to satisfy a basic human need for comfort and solace. But it had become their habit since they had reached Nifl, and all four women condensed to a single tent. It was easy to blame on the practicality of shared body warmth.

Yet, it afforded them a closeness that they were growing more comfortable with by the day. Fjorm always slept on the far side of the tent, usually curled against Kiran’s side, head on her shoulder. The summoner held her close with one arm, the other usually folded behind her hooded head. Selkie may start on the opposite side of Kiran, but usually by morning she had somehow migrated to sleep on top of her, head on her chest, curled in on herself like a sleeping fox. Sharena laid on Selkie’s other side and migrated with her, so by morning she was curled against the summoner. But Fjorm was the only one who started and ended the night in her arms, and it felt… correct.

It extended to their waking hours as well. If Fjorm was quiet or upset, Kiran automatically sought to reassure her through touch: placing a hand on her back, stroking her hair, lightly touching her shoulder to let her know that she was there. Likewise, Fjorm seemed to think nothing of resting her hand on Kiran’s arm or knee to silently request her attention or sidling up close to her if she sensed the summoner’s mood darken.

Even now Fjorm had edged closer until she was firmly pressed against her side, and Kiran had wrapped an arm loosely around her shoulder.

It was perilous, and Gunnthrá’s words still echoed in her mind: _Just because you have chosen her, does not mean she will choose you._ It merited a conversation, but one that would have to wait until after they reached Snjárhof. Perhaps until Surtr was defeated and sovereignty restored to Nifl.

“And there is where it is said Leiptr was forged upon our highest peak.” She turned to face north and pointed at the mountain that towered over all others in the distance, over the one they currently stood on. She had never seen such a mountain, she was certain of it. Not in this life or the one she did not remember.

It was a mountain upon a mountain, so tall that it seemed no mortal could possibly hope to scale it. It climbed ever skyward and seemed to pierce the heavens. As the sun set, she could see its shadow creeping forward enveloping all below in shadow.

“Your sister could not have chosen a less remote place to conceal herself.” Kiran remarked dryly. They had already been in Nifl for several weeks. It had been nearly two weeks since the dream that steered them towards Snjárhof, and they were still at least three or four days away.

“This region of Nifl has been completely abandoned. All that remains are ruins.” She replied and pressed more firmly against the summoner, as if for warmth. “There will be a reason she has chosen that place.”

“I have no doubt.” Kiran agreed because Gunnthrá had a reason and motive behind everything that she did. She turned to face west, the direction that they traveled, and steered the smaller woman with her. “You said this is where we begin to descend?” She shielded her eyes against the sun and surveyed the landscape. The mountains began to slope downward, growing ever smaller until they diminished into foothills. It was impossible to estimate distance with everything covered in snow. Distance was a tricky thing in the alpine: what seemed close could be very far. “I suppose that looks like the quickest way down.” She pointed.

The ice princess nodded and squinted at the proposed route. “Yes, I believe you are right.”

“We will have to pass under that serac.” She traced the feature in the distance with her finger. “A task I do not relish even in daylight, and we are losing light quickly. Camping here was a good decision.”

The faint tingle of awareness at being studied caused the summoner to look down at the princess. Fjorm’s brow furrowed as her eyes searched the shadows over her face, as if she could see through them. “How do you know this word?”

Kiran blinked and glimpsed back up at the massive block of glacial ice that climbed from the intersection of crevasses. It was easily a hundred meters in height, twice or even thrice that in length, and slightly overhung the path they would be forced to take down. The danger was ice falls which could happen at any time and without warning. She frowned. “Is that not what that is?”

“No,” Fjorm’s brow smoothed, and she smiled. “That is precisely what that is. But Askr has no glaciers.”

“So?”

“The only way you should know that word is if you have encountered them before.” She said, her blue eyes smiling brighter than the one gracing her lips. Kiran stared blankly as the face of the serac caught the light of the setting sun and blazed orange and red, and she failed to understand. Fjorm sighed but smiled indulgently, as if she were explaining the obvious to a child. “The only way you could know this word is if you have _seen_ one before.” She repeated.

“But—” Kiran paused. She had never seen one before, not that she remembered at least.

“You have navigated these mountains as well as I do, and I was born to this kingdom.” Fjorm leaned into her. “I dare say that your home, at least some part of it, is not so different from Nifl. It is not quite a memory, but…”

“Oh.”

Home. The world she had left behind. No, that was inaccurate. The world she had been ripped away from by the Rite of Summoning. As many times as she tried to remember, as many times as she searched for something, anything familiar to her, she had never found it. Even now, nothing about this landscape was familiar to her, only the feeling of peace that evoked. Not the mountains. Not the sky. Not the glaciers or bite of the wind. She did not know how she intuitively seemed to know the best way to summit these mountains, the best course to descend. She did not know how she had recognized the serac for what it was. It was like knowing what the moon was without ever seeing it.

It was a stranger. Like everything else had been. She had no memory of any of it, and so she never thought of anywhere as “home.” It was simply Before. The place she had been Before she became the summoner.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to…” Fjorm said softly, misreading the silence.

“No, no.” Kiran shook her head. “It isn’t that. I guess I have never really thought,” She did not want to say the word. “What it must be like.”

“Never?”

“No.”

* * *

The sun sank lower, almost reaching the far line of the horizon. The sky above and behind them began to bruise with twilight, and the first stars began to twinkle. Fjorm tentatively placed a hand on her forearm, waited for Kiran to look at her. “You possess such power...but you never show off. You treat all of us with kindness. I respect you for that.” She searched the shadows obscuring her face. “You can allow us, _me_ , to repay that kindness with my own. You can confide in me the same way I confide in you. I would not think less of you for it.”

Kiran looked away, back at the mountains, and the ice princess was certain that she would be ignored. After several long moments, she sighed as if deflating. “I wonder _who_ I was. What I was doing the exact moment Anna and Breidablik summoned me. Who was I? A farmer? A warrior, a scholar, a queen, a mother, a wife? Was I cooking dinner? Was I asleep? Was I kneeling in the garden or herding a flock of goats? Issuing commands to my army? Was I holding my child?”

She imagined Kiran cradling an infant in her arms or laughing as one perched on her shoulders and then suddenly disappearing. The idea of it caused a knot to tighten in her chest. Fjorm said nothing, afraid if she started speaking that the other woman would stop. She waited for her to continue and ignored the weight of her own regret.

“Anna performed a rite of summoning with Breidablik. And there I was. No memory of where I came from, no clue who I was. Just me and an obnoxious owl.” As if sensing she was a topic of conversation, Feh hooted from Kiran’s shoulder.

“The rite performed with Breidablik summons the Great Hero.”

“Yes, but who is the Great Hero?”

Fjorm could not reply.

“The answer does not matter to anyone. All that matters is that I’m apparently the _One_. The Great Hero. The Summoner.” Kiran said bitterly. “But none of you have ever, for one moment, stopped to think that I was an actual person before the rite was performed and I was brought to this world.” The words became increasingly tight, as if compressed in her throat.

The smaller woman suddenly felt ashamed. She had wondered about Kiran’s past, who she was, where she was from, but it never occurred to her that she had been forcibly plucked from her life, that there were people somewhere who missed her, mourned her absence. She was the Great Hero, this is what she was meant to do, to wield Breidablik, to fulfill the legends and prophecies, but Fjorm had never thought how debasing and objectifying that must feel.

To be nothing more than a role to play. To not be granted even basic consideration for who she was outside of her identity as the Summoner.

“I was never given a choice in any of this. I am only the Summoner.”

Behind them, their companions laughed at something that Selkie had said, the words lost over the distance. They were oblivious to the two women as they warmed themselves by the fire that Robin managed to usefully conjure without having wood or other fuel to burn.

“Then why stay? Why fight for Askr, for the Order, for Nifl?” She hoped that the question did not sound like an accusation. She was genuinely curious as to why she went along with it all. She might not have had a choice in being summoned, but she had a choice whether or not to go along with Anna and the Order, but she had chosen to remain with them. She had chosen to journey to Nifl.

“Breidablik brought me to this world.” Kiran shrugged. “At first, I stayed because I thought the only possibility to return to whatever home I came from was through Breidablik.” She paused, and the muscles of her jaw bunched. “But it became clear that returning was not possible.” Looking over her shoulder at the camp, she was silent for several moments again, and Fjorm realized that each time she paused, it was to regain her composure. “I have come to love them.” She took a deep breath. “I have no way to define myself except by those I love. So, I have stayed.”

“I—” Fjorm reluctantly left the other woman’s side and stood in front of her, forcing her to look down at her. She had always been short, even by Nifl standards, but it had never bothered her. Some might have viewed it as a handicap, and while she did not have the reach and size of other warriors, she had always trained hard to compensate by being faster and more agile. And if she was honest, she quite liked the difference in height between her and the summoner. When they were close like this, it made her feel protected. But that was the opposite of what she wanted right now; Kiran did not need the weight of another responsibility, another person to protect. She faltered. “Can you…?”

Kiran tilted her head, confused. It was amazing how someone could still manage to be so expressive without ever showing her face. “I don’t understand?”

Inhaling deeply, Fjorm reached for her hands, held them in both of her own, and hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. “Can you come down here, please?” The smirk that played upon the other woman’s lips was faint but obvious, but she did as requested and sank to her knees. Feh grumbled a hoot at the abrupt change in altitude and took off from the summoner’s shoulder. She circled them once as if scolding them for disturbing her before gliding to land on the cross-poles of one of the tents.

Once they were eye to eye, Fjorm spoke. “You are not only the summoner, not to me, Kiran.”

It was barely perceptible, but Kiran tensed, and Fjorm imagined those gray eyes scrutinizing her expression. “Then who am I?”

“I don’t know yet,” She admitted and succumbed to the irresistible desire to pull her close, to comfort her. She relinquished the hold on her hands and stepped into her, wrapping her arms around her head and shoulders and holding her to her chest. After stiffening initially in surprise, Kiran relaxed and encircled her own arms around Fjorm’s waist and embraced her in return.

No person, no good person, should be forced to experience what the summoner had. Her heart ached for Kiran, yearned to take away the burden that had been imposed upon her. Fjorm had lost so much in this war with Múspell, but at least she knew what she had lost. All Kiran possessed were questions; she was doomed to mourn the unknown. And at least she could fight back against Surtr, but how was Kiran supposed to fight back against a choice that had been made, irrevocably, for her?

She wished she could despise Anna for what she had done to Kiran, but a part of her, the selfish part, acknowledged that if she had not, they would never have met. They would not be in Nifl on the top of a mountain under the emerging and wavering glow of the aurora of the far north.

“No one should ever have their autonomy violated as yours was,” Fjorm said, her lips brushing the soft fabric of the hood as she spoke. “And if I have played any part in that violation, I am truly sorry, Kiran.”

Kiran’s shoulders slumped forward, and she rested her head against Fjorm’s shoulder as if accepting the solace offered. Fjorm felt the taller woman shake her head as she tightened her embrace. “You are the one choice I have made for myself, little bird.”

* * *

In the camp by the fireside, Selkie huffed in exasperation as she watched the two women. “I thought for sure this time…”

Sharena shook her head and took a sip of water from her canteen. “Are they really that oblivious to one another? Or are they just both in denial?” For months now, she had watched the summoner and ice princess skirt acknowledgment of their feelings for one another. Kiran might hide her face extraordinarily well, but she was rubbish at hiding her feelings, at least where Fjorm was concerned. Watching them was like watching a couple try to dance without touching one another, close but never quite connecting.

While she could not hear what they were talking about, they had stood side by side for nearly an hour. And not just side by side, Fjorm had ducked under the summoner’s arm and pressed against her side. She had surreptitiously been watching while occasionally chiming into the conversation Alfonse and Robin were having about battlefield tactics. And she had not been the only one. When Kiran had knelt in front of the smaller woman, the kitsune girl had gasped.

“Wait, wait, wait—” She whispered, shushing her companions. “Come on…” The four of them were rapt, as if watching the final bout of jousting tournament.

But the anticipated moment never arrived. The two of them embraced, Fjorm clinging to the taller woman as if she were afraid or overwhelmed or desperate. And while it was an intimate embrace, it was far from the affirmation of their feelings for one another.

It was maddening. Even Alfonse, who was usually dense where matters of romance and affection were concerned, had picked up on the tension between their companions. “Maybe they are just private people.” Her brother shrugged, and Sharena rolled her eyes. He thought he was being sly and that no one had picked up on his relationship with Robin. More evidence to how obtuse he was.

“No, I have to agree with Sharena.” The tactician said, snapping his fingers over the fire, coaxing it to grow with his magic. “While they are making progress, it borders on painful to watch them.”

“They will get there… eventually.” The blond princess said confidently and glimpsed over her shoulder at her two friends. Kiran had stood, and now they both approached the camp. Fjorm had reclaimed her spot under Kiran’s arm, against her side. This time however, she reached behind the summoner and looped an arm around her waist. “Because I cannot watch them pine over one another for another two months.”

* * *

The descent from the mountains had been blessedly uneventful. Passing under the serac had been nerve-wracking for the summoner and ice princess, both of whom were acutely aware of how deadly the ice could be. They had to urge their companions forward, to accelerate their pace to minimize the amount of time spent under the lethal overhang of ice. The anxiety Kiran had felt was real, and it only further convinced her that Fjorm was correct.

Her “home” had been a place with glaciers and probably mountains, a place where she had cultivated a healthy fear of the dangers both posed. Her mind may not remember, but her body did. Her heart thrummed rapidly in her chest, a cold sweat broke out on her back, and she strained her ears, listening for a crack, a whisper, any hint that the ice may fall.

But it hadn’t, and they had made it to the subalpine region in just three days. As long as the weather held, they should make it to Snjárhof by late afternoon.

“Are you excited?” Fjorm fell into step beside the summoner.

Kiran’s brow knit together. “For what?” Sharena and Selkie darted ahead of the group, weaving among the trees and lobbing snowballs at one another. After such an arduous few days, they deserved a chance to relax and behave like the almost-kids that they were. She often worried that the pressure was too much for the young women, especially the princess. Selkie was rarely phased by anything, and she treated everything as play. However, while Sharena always wore a brave face, she shouldered the weight of her kingdom as much as her brother.

As much as she lectured the prince and princess of Askr about their responsibilities, Kiran regretted the necessity of it. She wished that they did not have to worry whether their decisions would cost lives or bear the burden if they did. Lives hinged on their actions; their kingdom relied on their decisiveness. It was moments like these when she was reminded of how young they truly were. When naked joy played upon their faces, when their laughter was carefree and honest, when they indulged in the simple delight of a snowball fight.

She watched as Sharena swore vengeance against the kitsune as snowball struck her perfectly in the face. Kiran realized that Fjorm had spoken and shook herself from her thoughts. “I’m sorry?”

“To meet Gunnthrá.” Fjorm repeated, using her lance like a walking stick, planting the butt of it in the ground ahead of her as she walked. “After meeting so many times in your dreams, I imagine you are looking forward to meeting her face-to-face.”

“Ah,” Kiran shortened her stride to make it easier for the smaller woman to walk beside her. “It has been six, seven months now.” She said carefully. It was obvious that all the royal siblings adored one another, and Fjorm clearly looked up to her sister. She did not want to lie to her, but neither did she want to be truthful and say she was dreading it. Especially after her last dream which she had only briefly outlined to her companions.

_The light was bright, but they were no longer in her garden. What little control Kiran must have had in the dreams forced them to a more neutral location: on the shores of a mountain lake. They were in a natural depression, a bowl ringed by craggy mountains on all sides, and save where the sun burned along the mountain face, the rest of the area was in shadow. Despite the snow ringing the banks and capping the rocks protruding from its surface, the lake itself was not frozen. Gunnthrá stood next to her, hands folded primly in front of her._

_“Oh, Kiran... Soon, we will meet. I am overjoyed.” She smiled brightly as if imagining their meeting. “I have something important to tell you first, though.”_

_Kiran opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. She tried again. Nothing. Her lips moved, her tongue articulated, but no sound escaped her lips. She was voiceless, completely unable to respond. Which she knew was no accident or incidental aspect of the dream world. Gunnthrá meant for her to listen, nothing more._

_“There is a ceremony in Nifl called the Rite of Frost.” The princess continued, oblivious to the summoner’s inability to speak. Oblivious or indifferent. “It is so powerful that it can extinguish even the flames of Múspell. The last to perform the ritual was my mother, in her fight against Surtr. She lost her life that day. Thanks to that, I am sure that Surtr thinks he is untouchable.”_

_Crossing her arms over her chest, Kiran listened. She had been relegated to be a captive audience rather than an active participant in her dream. The mountains were radiant gold, and she wondered if the sun was rising or setting._

_“That is simply not true. Instead, I believe it was a ploy of my mother's, designed to throw Surtr off his guard. She conducted the rite without the necessary artifacts, you see.” Her omnipresent smile took on a new dimension, like that of one who was in a possession of a secret that others were not. “But I have one of them with me. It is called the Snjársteinn. And the other, well... It is in your hands already. It is the divine weapon, Breidablik.”_

_She had felt her temper flare, and she wanted to shout. The relic. It could not be coincidence that the same relic that had summoned her to Askr and designated her as the Great Hero was also the relic necessary for this Rite of Frost. Was this the reason for her summoning, the role she would play in this war? Had Gunnthrá played a part, somehow, in Anna summoning her two years ago? She had a dozen questions but could ask none of them. Feeling for the relic that hung from her belt, she clenched her fist tightly around its handle._

_As usual, the eldest princess of Nifl paid little heed to any shift in the summoner’s mood. “Your weapon holds a very special power—it can control the worlds. When we meet, I will entrust the stone to you. And with it, you will be able to guide us. It will expose to us the path to the true Rite of Frost and grant us the power we need to defeat Surtr.”_

_Gunnthrá sighed happily, and finally turned to look at her. Kiran found herself turning to face the other woman in turn. Before she could react, the princess had pushed the hood from her face, stripping her of the shadows, and grazed her knuckles over her cheek. “Soon, my dear Kiran…”_

_Kiran began to raise a hand to bat the princess’s hand away, but she awoke before the action could be completed._

“That is a long time to speak with someone without meeting them.” Fjorm agreed. Kiran was not sure, but she thought she detected a trace of uncertainty in the ice princess’s voice. “I am glad you will finally meet one another.”

Dread had become a leaden weight in Kiran’s stomach. Unless real-Gunnthrá was markedly different from dream-Gunnthrá, it would be complicated. Worse, now she knew that she intended to travel with them, to wherever Breidablik led them to perform the Rite of Frost. She did not trust the eldest princess of Nifl to respect her choice, did not trust her to listen to a damn thing she said. How she could persist in acting as if she were entitled to Kiran’s affection caused her stomach to churn.

Perhaps she should have confessed her feelings to Fjorm the other night on the mountain, admit that she had cared for her long before they had found her wounded in the snow. Maybe she should have told her, at least more directly. Then maybe, the younger ice princess would know that despite however Gunnthrá acted towards the summoner, the feelings were not reciprocated.

Abruptly, she felt her face flush under the hood. It was petty and selfish of her to be concerned about her feelings for the ice princess when the fate of a kingdom, multiple kingdoms, depended on this meeting. Kiran admonished herself. The priority should be ensuring Surtr caused no more harm, that both Nifl and Askr were safe. After that was accomplished, then she could worry about her feelings.

In the meantime, she would be diplomatic and cautious. Determination eased the burden of dread. Without thinking, Kiran reached down and tousled Fjorm’s hair. “I am glad that you will be reunited with your sister.”

“Yes,” Fjorm huffed and pretended to be annoyed that her hair had been mussed, but still smiled as she smoothed it back into place with one hand. “I have missed her terribly.” Her smile broadened but turned wistful. “Have I told you the last time we were all together, we swore an oath? It is something the royal family has done any time Nifl is threatened. A sacred vow to protect the kingdom and our people at all costs.”

She had not told Kiran, but the summoner already knew about the oath. But she could not tell Fjorm that, not yet at least. Instead, she rested her hand on the back of her neck and squeezed it reassuringly. “I will do all within my power for you to keep this oath you have sworn.”

The smile Fjorm flashed her was bright and caused Kiran’s heart to tense and lighten. “I know you will, Kiran.”

Sharena and Selkie, in her shifted fox form, sprinted towards them. Selkie reached them first, her four paws allowing her to move more lightly and agilely in the snow. By the time she had shifted back, the Askran princess was beside her, panting. “Múspell!”

“What?” Kiran demanded.

“Múspell soldiers. Ahead of us, about a hundred meters. They didn’t see us, Kiran.” Selkie explained, as Sharena struggled to recover her breath.

“That’s impossible. How did they get ahead of us?” Alfonse and Robin who had been walking together behind the summoner and ice princess caught up in time to hear the kitsune’s response. The Askran prince frowned. “There is no way…”

“Snjárhof should be just ahead.” Fjorm’s brow creased with worry as she looked up at Kiran, as if anything the summoner could say could reassure her. “We need to make sure my sister is safe!” Without waiting for a response, she took off at a dead sprint in the direction the others had came from, following Selkie’s footprints.

They all ran after her, and Alfonse called out to her, “Wait, Princess! With the soldiers—”

“No!” Fjorm’s denial was plaintive as she reached the edge of the clusters of pine trees, where the forest opened into a small clearing in front of a crumbling ruin. “How did he…”

The rumble of deep, mocking laughter answered her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me. Again, super sorry for the delay, apologize if this chapter is not as polished, and much love to you all.


	7. Snow and Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being this close was joyously agonizing, but she felt her next question was important, almost as important as finally being able to press her lips against the other woman’s. “Can…” She whispered, her voice already low with anticipation. “Can I kiss you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple notes. I have written and rewritten this chapter a dozen times, but whatever. This chapter is for Oricalle who showed me at least one person was reading this... haha. So, thank you, lady (or dude?). You're my hero. 
> 
> Second, if you're a Gunnthra-lover... I'm so sorry. I did not mean for her to be a pseudo-villain in this story, but let's face it, she is kind of creepy. Like, she is way too intimate with the summoner, I just wanted to shout at her "I don't know you! That's my purse!"
> 
> Lastly, I really am sorry for the delay. I just started a new job, and like I said, I rewrote this a dozen times and can't get it to feel quite right, but whatever. Thanks for sticking with it. I may actually get to the smut soon.

“Surtr!” She felt the twin fires of hate and rage consume her. He had taken everything, almost everything from her. Her entire family, her kingdom, her honor, and now even her integrity. Her rage pleased him, and she hated herself for it. “Is there any part of you that is human at all?” She leveled Leiptr at him, her grip surprisingly steady for how badly her shoulders quaked.

The flame tyrant laughed, the malevolence of it piercing her eardrums. “Listen to that! I can hear you fraying...” He raised a gauntleted fist that writhed with snakes of flame. “What vexes you more? Is it my strength, or your weakness? Let your rage consume you. Burn with the fires of hate. It will become fuel for my flames—all of it!”

“Grraaa!” She ran forward, prepared to strike at him however she could, regardless of any promise to the summoner. This beast could no longer be called a man. All he did was destroy. All he took pleasure in was pain and misery. He delighted in havoc and torture. He had twisted her beautiful sister into a smoldering corpse, but not before singeing every nerve-ending she had and making her suffer immeasurably.

“Princess Fjorm!” It was Alfonse who caught her with an arm around her waist, not the summoner. She swung an elbow trying to break free of his grasp, but he deftly ducked under it. “There is no time to argue with him.” He jerked her back, pleading with her “We can't defeat Surtr yet! You said this yourself... We must escape before we fall into his trap! Hurry! Please!”

She could not hear him; all she could hear was _his_ laughter. It echoed in her nightmares. It haunted her thoughts. With every life he burned to ash, his laughter followed. First her mother. Her brother and sister. Now Gunnthrá. And the countless lives in between. Tears blurred her vision, and she screamed to drown out his laughter. Screamed until her lungs burned and her throat ached. Held back by the Askran prince and princess, all she could do was scream, and even then, her voice eventually failed.

“Kiran… My dear Kiran…” The smoldering flesh that had once been her sister stirred. She barely heard her voice. It was less than a whisper, merely a breath. Fjorm stopped struggling and stared at the body that had once been Gunnthrá at Surtr’s feet.

“Sister!” She lunged but the prince and princess yanked her back. Surtr had called her a roasted hunk of meat. Her skin had cracked and split where the heat of his flames had cooked the muscle underneath. Small scraps of her clothing were intact, covering hints of white skin that contrasted sharply with the blackened meat and soot. A strip of flesh from what remained of an arm had peeled back, separated from the bone. Her stomach lurched, and Fjorm swallowed hard several times to keep from vomiting.

“On my name... Gunnthrá, Nifl's child... Stone, to its vessel...” If she strained her ears, she could barely hear her voice. How was she even able to speak without lips?

For the first time, Surtr appeared something other than contemptuous. His brows knit together and he nudged Gunnthrá with his enormous boot. “Huh. You live?”

“With my body... With my soul...” Fjorm recognized the incantation her sister was murmuring with her final breaths. She glimpsed over her shoulder to where Kiran stood with Selkie, saw the faint glow of Breidablik peaking from underneath her robes.

The summoner did not move, did not stir, her body completely rigid. It was as if some force had frozen her to the spot, robbed her of her normal vitality. But unable to see her face, Fjorm could not discern whether it was fear or horror or grief or something else entirely that had immobilized her. The direction her head was canted directed her gaze at Gunnthrá’s mangled body, as if she was unable to see anything else.

It was unlike Kiran, who moved across the battlefield with liquid grace and decisiveness. Kiran was purpose and intent. She was their leader, imposing and direct, never faltering or wavering. She always seemed to know precisely what to do even if she didn’t. Fjorm was surprised that it was not her yanking her back from fighting Surtr, scolding her for her recklessness. There was a stab of loss at that realization, that it seemed the summoner could not care less what was happening outside of Gunnthrá. Whatever she was seeing, feeling, it had turned Kiran into someone she normally wasn’t.

“It is done. My role is at an end...” Gunnthrá’s words were a breathy rasp, like a deflating bladder. “Your divine weapon... I have entrusted the power to you, Kiran... Go now. Follow the light... I am so glad that we were able to meet at last...” Her last words were directed to the summoner.

Whatever strength Gunnthrá had in her final moments, she had used to impart the Snjarsteinn to Kiran. She had ensured that they still had a chance to defeat Surtr. Her vision blurred again. “Gunnthrá…”

“So, she held off death for a while. To what purpose?” Surtr’s voice was no longer a boisterous shout, a derisive snort. He almost sounded human. But it was short-lived. His lips twisted into a sneer as he looked past Fjorm to the summoner, scorn and glee wheedling its way back to his words. “Could it be that you are the One, Kiran? Fascinating. Their hopes rest with you. I will have to make sure you burn next!”

Alfonse tightened his arm around Fjorm’s waist and dragged her back with him. “Let's get out of here. _Now!_ ”

* * *

The ruins they had retreated to were better concealed than Snjárhof. To anyone walking past, it appeared to just be a fissure between two boulders, a cleft in the snow-covered rock. It was just wide enough for a person to pass through if they turned and shimmied through shoulder first. But it had clearly been made for the people of Nifl. The rest of their companions passed through easily enough, but it took some creative shifting and positioning for Kiran to squeeze through.

The opening descended into a narrow stairwell that was swallowed by darkness after only a few steps. Robin lit the way by casting shards of mage light to illuminate the path ahead of them. It opened into a grand room, with high ceilings and enormous columns. It was not a naturally occurring cavern. Rather, it appeared to have been carved and chiseled from the very stone of the mountain. At the north end of there was an altar on a raised platform, its purpose long forgotten.

No one said anything. Even Feh was uncharacteristically quiet, as if even the cantankerous owl acknowledged the tragedy. The adrenalin from their retreat had worn off and left only the reality of Gunnthrá’s death in its absence. It hung over them like an oppressive cloud of dread, that by speaking they would be forced to acknowledge. Breidablik felt heavier, hanging from the belt at her waist. It was if the Snjarsteinn added immeasurable weight to the relic, making her acutely aware of its presence.

After a quick exploration, it was decided that a chapel located off the main chamber would be the best place to camp. It was much smaller, and the ceiling was much lower. It would be easier to keep warm with a fire. Quietly, Kiran asked Alfonse to take the others back outside to gather wood for the fire and snow to melt for water. Smart enough to understand her ulterior motive, everyone quickly left to leave the two women alone.

Fjorm had not followed them into the smaller chapel. She had stood at the altar of the main chamber, hands folded in front of her as if praying. She did not turn when the rest of their party exited, waited until the clatter of their footsteps faded, as if she knew that despite the silence, Kiran remained.

“You knew.” She began unsteadily, finally turning to face the summoner. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wet, but her cheeks were dry.

Kiran frowned. “Knew what?”

“You spoke with her for months. You cannot tell me that you had no inclination that this is what she was planning. You knew she was going to sacrifice herself.” The ice princess abandoned the altar and strode purposefully to her, jabbing a finger at her chest accusatorily. “She must have told you.”

“She told me nothing.” Kiran felt her frown deepen, her brow furrow. It was the same question that had been repeating over and over in her mind. Had this been what Gunnthrá planned all along? Had it always been her intention to die by Surtr’s hand, at this moment? She could not imagine it. Since the beginning, the eldest princess of Nifl had always been in control. She was like an omniscient tactician, always in control of everything, always aware of what was happening before it happened. It had always been like they were the pawns she was moving on her game board, knowing what Surtr’s next move would be before he made it, maneuvering Kiran to counter it. She could not imagine that her death had been a surprise to her.

Yet, what did she hope to gain by dying? What was the purpose in that death? Kiran could not imagine she would allow herself to die if there was no benefit in it for her. None of it made any sense, and she had played over every conversation they shared in her mind, trying to find some clue, some hint as to what her motive might have been.

“Why did you not tell me?” Fjorm demanded. She planted her hands on Kiran’s chest and shoved her, but the larger woman hardly shifted. “You knew!”

“I did not.” Kiran insisted but made no attempt to defend herself when Fjorm shoved her a second time. She had not liked Gunnthrá, but no one deserved what Surtr had done to her. The memory of her charred flesh caused bile to rise into her throat. If she had known, she would have stopped her, no matter what her feelings towards the elder princess were. No one should die like that, choked by the swollen, cooked remnants of their own tongue. She would have saved her for Fjorm’s sake alone.

“Months! You spoke with her for months!” The tears threatened to spill over. Tears of anger. Tears of grief. “You owe me better than lies, Summoner. You owe me the truth.”

“Owe you?” Kiran clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails bit into the palms of her hands. She turned her back to her and reminded herself of the pain the younger woman must be in. She closed her eyes, inhaled, then exhaled slowly. When she felt capable of it, she turned to face her again. But when she opened her mouth to speak, Fjorm cut her off.

“Yes, you owe me the truth.” Her small frame trembling with emotion, she glared venomously at Kiran. Grief had contorted the usual brightness of her blue eyes into darkness. “You owe it to Gunnthrá to tell me the truth.”

Her restraint failed. Like a rope unable to bear the weight it carried, it snapped suddenly. Explosively. “The truth is that your sister manipulated me, you, all of us from the very start. From the very first time she stepped into my dreams, she was in control. Not me. Her!” She shouted, her fists clenching again. “She played me from the very beginning.”

Fjorm’s countenance shifted quickly from astonishment to outrage. “How dare you! My sister—”

“No, you wanted the truth, girl. The truth is that she could have told me how to intervene months, _months_ , before she did. You knew she performed the Rite of Dreams before Múspell invaded. Did you ever wonder why I did not appear until the end? When the war was effectively lost?” The slackness of her features on the ice princess’s face told her that she had not. “She only told me what she wanted me to know. She only told me how to help when it suited her. And it did not suit her until she needed me to rescue you.”

Shaking her head vehemently, Fjorm clenched her jaw. “She must have had her reasons. She must have—”

“Of course, she had her reasons!” Like the first crack in a dam, the trickle of anger and hurt had become a torrent, and there was no stopping it. “But she never told me what they were. But I can tell you, everything she did was to manipulate us where she wanted us. Tell me, do you have her power of dreams?”

The smaller woman seemed to be thrown by the question, and her hands fell to her sides. “No, I mean—All heirs of Nifl have some fragment of the power but she was the only one that had its full power. We dream but we do not remember, we only have—” She froze as if suddenly remembering something, and the realization that Kiran had been prodding her for bloomed across her face. “No, no… It was not you, you cannot be the ‘mysterious stranger.’”

“I am.”

A pause. Silent resignation. “It was you.” Fjorm finally said suddenly quiet, her earlier confidence and conviction diminished.

“Yes.”

“You’re the ‘mysterious stranger.’” It was both a statement and a question, a demand for her to confirm it beyond all doubt.

“Yes.”

“You know me. You have always known me.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

Gunnthrá had not been the only one she dreamed of. Night after night, she dreamed of the other heirs of Nifl. She sat with them as they admitted their fears, hopes, misgivings, and promises.

She had comforted the youngest, Ylgr when she had been frightened, had taken her by the hand and shown her love and warmth to counteract the coldness of fear. The last time they had spoken, she had promised the little girl that they would meet in the real world one day, not knowing it might well be a lie. It was likely the girl was already dead, and the promise already broken.

Hríd had spoken to her like a confidante, an old friend from childhood that knew him as something other than the Prince of Nifl. She saw past his burdens and responsibilities to the man who was terrified of failing not only his kingdom, but his family. A man so desperate to fulfill his obligations of his family and heritage that he was willing to die for them. He had confessed to her the weight of his responsibilities, his fears. He had thanked her for the respite of her company and told her that while he might not remember the dream when he woke, he would carry the comfort of them in his heart, always.

The ice princess had been different. While there were a few dreams like the others, dreams where they sat and talked, Kiran listening to all the things she would never admit when awake, holding her when the tears came, wiping them away with her thumb, and whispering promises of solace. She also had prophetic nightmares. She had seen Surtr before Múspell ever invaded Nifl. She had seen the war and horror Nifl was doomed to suffer, but Kiran had intervened in every time, saving Fjorm from the flames.

It was not just their dreams. Their memories came to her as she slept, events she could witness but not participate in. The conversations about vaguely remembered dreams. Gunnthrá watching Fjorm train. Hríd telling Fjorm why he had given her Leiptr. The two of them sparring, day after day. The oath that each had sworn to one another, to protect Nifl, her people, and peace at all costs. She was an observer of all their intimate moments.

The Rite of Dreams that Gunnthrá had performed had tied Kiran not only to her, but to her siblings as well. Kiran had no control over the dreams. She could not initiate them or stop them, but once they occurred, she was almost in full control of what she said and did except when Gunnthrá deemed otherwise. They were not the only dreams she had. When she slept, she heard the voices of a thousand heroes calling out to her. She could not silence them; they were always there, always vying for her attention.

Somehow, something that Gunnthrá had done had ensured that her voice and the voices of her siblings were the ones she heard, the ones that stood out amongst the constant din. Now they were bound together, as if they had always known each other, as if Kiran had always been there. Ylgr had said it was like she was one of them, part of their family.

It had been enough to make Kiran feel obligated to all of them, not out of duty or burden, but because of the genuine affection and attachment she had developed for them. She suspected that was Gunnthrá’s intention all along. It was her insurance, her guarantee that Kiran would be emotionally invested. She could not gamble that the summoner would come to her aid alone. She had to make sure that she had a reason to intervene when she deemed it necessary. A family to save.

The cruelty of it was like a lance through her chest. Gunnthrá ensured that she came to love and care about people she never had any hope of saving. She had wanted her to be emotionally involved beyond what her role as the summoner required. What she had not counted on was that the summoner would fall in love with the wrong sister.

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” Kiran turned and walked away towards the altar, felt the other woman follow her, felt her eyes on her back. “Knowing you in the dream and knowing you in reality are two very different things. The dream-you is flat, superficial, only a single aspect of who you are.” But it had been enough to make Kiran start to fall in love with her. She squeezed her eyes shut before turning around to face her. “In reality, you are flesh and blood and more complex than any dream could approximate.” The princess was so much more than she could have ever anticipated.

“Gunnthrá never told us your name. Never told us who you were.” Her shoulders slumped forward, and she hung her head. “My brother and sister, all we could ever remember is that there was someone. Someone who mattered. Someone who was important to us. Someone that we were important to. But we couldn’t remember.”

At the mention of Gunnthrá’s name, Kiran felt a swell of anger that stung her eyes and threatened tears. She crossed her arms over her chest as if it could somehow contain her ire. “Did you ever wonder why she did not tell you? She could have. But she didn’t. Why?”

She was pleading, desperate. She had not asked for this. Any of this. She had not asked to be the Summoner; she was not given a choice when she was jerked away from whatever her life had been, stripped of her memory, of whatever had come before. It had not been her choice when Gunnthrá performed the Rite, tying her inescapably to four doomed siblings, making them a part of her, only to wrench them away.

All of that she could find a way to accept, perhaps even find a way to cope with, and she had in some manner. She had shouldered the weight of it by keeping it a secret, her secret. But sharing that secret forced her to acknowledge the cruelty of being shown a family that she had never had any hope of saving. She had been manipulated into making a promise to a little girl that everything was going to be okay, a promise that was broken before she even made it, a promise there had never been a chance for her to keep. Only she had not known that. She had been forced to play a game only to have the rules changed halfway through.

“She had her reasons.” Fjorm was defiant again, her voice steady despite the tears that streaked her pale cheeks.

“Fuck her reasons, Fjorm!” Her words echoed off the thick stone walls. “First, she performs the Rite of Dreams before the invasion even began.” She held up a single finger, then extended a second, preparing to list every questionable action the eldest princess had performed. “But she does not tell me how I can find her, Nifl, how the Order can help. We could have intervened over a year ago. Then, she knows that I visit you in your dreams but does not tell you my name, does not tell you that we are all connected. She waits, _she waits_ , until Nifl has fallen and your brother and sister are lost, presumed dead, only then does she tell me where I can find you, rescue you. Why not your brother and sister? Why then?” She abandoned counting down on her fingers the reasons Gunnthrá’s actions were suspect and threw them up in frustration instead. “She waits a week, then tells us to come to Nifl. Waits still longer, tells us to come to Snjárhof. Then, on the eve before we reach Snjárhof, she tells me about the Rite of Frost.”

The ice princess stared at her, silent tears running unchecked down her cheeks, but Kiran could not stop herself. Everything she had held in for weeks, months, finally bubbling to the surface. “And if you could see how your precious sister treated me…” She said bitterly, inhaled deeply and shakily. “If you can justify her behavior in my dreams, then you are _not_ the woman I thought you were.” The fear of it was physically painful, and Kiran could not bear the thought of it. The idea of Fjorm being anything like Gunnthrá tore her chest asunder, and she kept speaking because if she stopped, she feared she would break. “If you can find a practical, justifiable reason for her lies and deception, _please_ tell me because I have killed myself trying to give her the benefit of every single doubt.”

The silence that swallowed them when she finished roared in her ears, and Kiran sat heavily on the dais next to the altar. Her breath came in long, ragged pants bordering on hyperventilating. Her eyes stung with tears that refused to fall, and she planted her elbows on her knees and rested her face in her hands. She felt the air in front of her disturbed and knew without looking that Fjorm had knelt in front of her. Exhausted, she wished that the girl would just leave her alone.

“If what you tell me is true,” Fjorm began softly, all traces of anger or hurt absent from her words. She was gentle again. Sweet, gentle Fjorm. “It means my sister orchestrated her own death. Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.” She lied and lifted her face from her hands. There was one possible reason, but it still rang false even in her own mind. But it was her last secret, the last truth she had held back from the ice princess. “The only reason I can think… Is that I told her that I could never love her…” She exhaled. “Because I love you.”

* * *

The uncontrollable storm of the summoner’s words stunned Fjorm. Kiran was so tightly controlled, so deliberate, frustratingly so. But something inside of her had cracked, and the wave of raw emotion was unfettered. Her unrestrained emotion was heartbreaking yet oddly beautiful in its vulnerability.

“If you can find a practical, justifiable reason for her lies and deception, _please_ tell me because I have killed myself trying to give her the benefit of every single doubt.”

Fresh tears escaped Fjorm’s eyes as the summoner’s voice broke and she pleaded with her. It was the desperate plea of a child begging for a truth to become untrue, for a reality to be unrealized, to change what could not be changed, to deny what she had already accepted. It was a plea of powerlessness.

It was like seeing a mountain crumble or a diamond shatter; it should not be possible. Fjorm dropped to her knees in front of Kiran but stopped short of reaching for her, even though her heart ached to do so. She didn’t know what to do. All she could see was the summoner in front of her, almost curled in on herself, bent and broken by the confession of all that she had kept to herself over the past months.

Grief over the loss of Ylgr and Hríd, guilt for failing them, doubt and reservation at Gunnthrá’s alleged manipulation. Kiran had kept it all to herself to protect her, to protect Fjorm. To allow her to grieve a brother and sister without having to acknowledge someone else’s loss. To shield her from the machinations of her beloved older sister. To preserve the image she had of her last living relative. The weight of it had crippled the strong woman.

Kiran would never lie to her. She knew that as surely as she had ever known anything, and now she knew why. It was because she _knew_ Kiran. She had known Kiran more intimately than probably anyone other than her siblings did. The Rite of Dreams bound hearts and souls together. Even when they had been strangers, their souls had known one another. It explained so much. And she knew, Kiran would not lie to her.

She did not know the Gunnthrá that Kiran described. Her sister had always been clever, always thought strategically, the voice of calm reason among the siblings. She had been kind and thoughtful, never malicious or hot-headed. She never raised her voice, never snapped impatiently. Even when faced with anger, contention, or disagreement.

She always had an unparalleled skill to navigating such disagreements, to swaying the other party to her side, to ensuring she got what she wanted. Her soft-spoken warmth could melt the iciest personalities. Gunnthrá had been a natural diplomat from a young age, and Fjorm remembered watching her negotiate trade agreements and policy with the most cantankerous of ambassadors. The exchange may begin heated and indignant, but by the end, she had soothed their concerns, moderated their demands, and even managed to make them concede to her will. They always left just as enamored with her as everyone else was.

Even on the rare occasion that the two of them had disagreed, the elder sister always managed to quell the conflict in her favor. She was kind when she explained why her younger sister was wrong or mistaken, her smile sweet and indulgent when she pointed out flaws in her logic, errors in her memory, or past blunders. Fjorm often felt foolish and selfish at the end of their disagreements, but also grateful that Gunnthrá was so patient with her. Gunnthrá knew that Fjorm used her heart far more often than her head, knew that she was prone to acting brashly, but she was never cruel about it.

She could not reconcile the Gunnthrá she thought she had known all her life, and the picture that Kiran had painted with wounded words and bitter reluctance. Yet, Gunnthrá _had_ performed the Rite long before Múspell invaded, which could have granted Kiran and the Order ample time to reach Nifl before it burned. She had known of the dreams of her younger siblings, of the “mysterious stranger,” yet never disclosed anything about her own dreams. She could have at least told them the stranger’s name, but she had not.

In the end, she had waited until their mother had been brutalized, their kingdom smoldered in ruin, countless lives ended in flame and agony, before finally summoning Kiran. To save her. Why not Ylgr or Hríd?

She could not answer Kiran’s plea, could not reassure her, and the realization left her throat constricted with the painful knot of a suppressed sob. She swallowed several times to clear the knot but the ache remained. “If what you tell me is true,” She said delicately, wanting so intensely to ease the other woman’s pain. “It means my sister orchestrated her own death. Why would she do that?”

The summoner finally lifted her face from her hands, and Fjorm managed to just barely see the glint of grey eyes in the shadow of her hood. “I don’t know.” She paused as if reluctant to continue. “The only reason I can think… Is that I told her that I could never love her…” She paused again and exhaled a long breath. “Because I love you.”

Fjorm’s own breath caught, half inhaled. Her pulse thundered in her ears, deafening, making her certain that she had misheard. She waited, certain that Kiran would continue and confirm that she was mistaken, that somehow she had confused the two sisters, or intended to say something, anything else. She could not bear to believe that Kiran love her, could not bear to hope lest it was taken away. Confirmation that her feelings for the other woman could not be reciprocated would be painful enough without the added humiliation of the summoner having to tell her in no uncertain terms.

As if she sensed her struggle, Kiran held her gaze with her barely visible eyes and repeated, “I love you, Fjorm.” The second time, it was said with such conviction, that there could be no doubt, and her vision blurred. “I never… it was not my intention. I don’t mean to…” She fumbled over the words, paused, and tried again. “In my dreams, I came to know the strongest woman I have ever met. A woman who feels everything so acutely, but never lets those feelings break her. She was passionate, selfless, dedicated to her family and kingdom. I told myself that I was falling for a dream, a phantom of reality. But then I found you in the snow, and I knew from the first time we spoke, the first time we argued because even as wounded as you were, you still wanted to fight. I knew that you were so much more than the woman in my dreams. Even if you do not return my affection, please know I will always be your ally and friend. Always.”

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Fjorm shook her head. How could Kiran even think that she would not return her feelings? She smiled with the absurdity of it, and impulsively, she rose up on her knees to bring her face level with the other woman’s.

Reaching under the hood, she held the summoner’s face in her hands, felt the tightening of jaw muscles beneath her palms. She leaned forward but halted short of kissing her. She was so close she felt the puff of Kiran’s breath against her lips. Her heart stuttered, but she wasn’t nervous. Being this close was joyously agonizing, but she felt her next question was important, almost as important as finally being able to press her lips against the other woman’s. “Can…” She whispered, her voice already low with anticipation. “Can I kiss you?”

The nod was barely perceptible, more felt than seen. “Please.” Kiran breathed and reached for her.

Fjorm marveled at how soft Kiran’s lips were, full and yielding, and in such contrast with the rest of her that was hard muscle and steel resolve. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, in between the summoner’s legs so that their bodies were pressed as closely as their lips. Fjorm’s right hand dipped further into her hood to the back of her head, fingers tangling in thick hair.

For the first time since she could remember, her mind was quiet. The litany of her failures, the voices of a broken kingdom, the mocking laughter of a madman, the cries of her slain family, all were hushed. It was as if her lips were a promise, a pledge. Not that she would not suffer or that all would be well, but rather that she was no longer alone through it all.

Kiran – _her_ Kiran – would be there no matter how many times she failed, would keep her accountable so she would not fail again. She would stand and fight at her side until Nifl had been restored and Surtr defeated. She would hold her through the nightmares, cradle her while she wept. Kiran would always be there, always within reach. No matter the distance that may separate them, all she had to do was dream, and Kiran would be there, and Fjorm was certain she would not forget her again.

The summoner groaned softly, her tongue swiping Fjorm’s lower lip as the kiss grew less tentative and more deliberate and possessive. The smaller woman nearly whimpered in response, parted her lips, tasted the salt of shared tears on her tongue. She let her mind slip away to the sensations: the tease of Kiran’s tongue in her mouth, the heat generated by the press of their bodies. She felt the pressure of Kiran’s thighs against her waist as if the summoner wanted to hold her close with more than just her hands. Fingers splayed in the small of her back, pushing them firmly together while the fingers of her opposite hand fisted in her hair, raking across her scalp. Errant strands of red escaped the confines of the hood and tickled her cheek and brow. Fjorm could feel Kiran all around her, surrounding her, enveloping her, and that was all that mattered.

The kiss seemed to last forever but not nearly long enough and ended naturally with both women pulling back just enough to breathe, foreheads still pressed together.

“I—” Kiran licked her lips, and Fjorm couldn’t quite tell because of the shadows, but it almost appeared as if her cheeks darkened. “I am sorry. I feel like my timing…” She said sheepishly.

Fjorm hushed her with a chaste kiss while stifling her own surge of guilt. Not half an hour ago, they had been all but shouting at one another. Fifteen minutes ago, her cheeks were wet with the tears she shed for her sister, for her death, for who Fjorm had thought she was. Now, they were damp with tears of relief and happiness. Perhaps it was inappropriate for her to find joy where there should be mourning and grief, but she could not bring herself to regret it. For once, she forgave herself.

“In war, it feels irreverent to find happiness.” She admitted and drew her lower lip between her teeth. “But I cannot believe it is wrong to find light among the darkness and shadow. I have always known that you will do what is best for me, even if I disagree. You are so strong, so kind, and you ask for nothing in return. My feelings for you grow stronger with every day.” She felt her cheeks pinken at the admission, but the reward of Kiran’s wide smile spurred her on. “It was as if I had started to fall in love with you before I even met you… which makes sense now because I probably did. In my dreams.”

She did not want to let go of Kiran, to stop touching her. It was as if so long as she was touching her, close to her, that this moment was real. “Do you…” She hesitated, reluctant to ask the question. “Do you think she let herself die because you didn’t love her?” The taller woman’s hood was askew, and she had not fixed it, giving Fjorm the rare luxury of searching her full expression.

“No.” Kiran replied without hesitation. “She does not seem to be one to give to despair, even if her feelings went unrequited.”

Shaking her head, Fjorm closed her eyes and rested her forehead against Kiran’s again. She could not imagine her sister despairing and miserable; she did not mope or sulk. She took action, she moved forward, she tried again. Until she got what she wanted. “She loved you?” Her voice sounded very small even to her own ears.

“Yes.” The hand that rested in the small of her back began to move up and down languidly, rubbing her back reassuringly. But despite the affectionate gesture, she felt the summoner tense. It was a reflex, something had prompted Kiran to be on the defensive. “But I could not love her. I did not love her. She had difficulty accepting that.”

“She did something, didn’t she?”

Kiran averted her eyes, refusing to look at her. “I would rather not talk about it.”

Her heart ached for the taller woman. It was almost as if she was ashamed of something, but she could not fathom what the summoner could possibly be ashamed of. It was difficult not to insist that no matter what it was, she would support her, that she was safe, that she was loved. Kiran would tell her in her own time. Instead of prodding further, she planted tender kisses on her brow, both of her eyelids, and finally her lips. “I will listen if you ever wish to talk, Kiran. There is nothing I would not do for you.”

Finally, Kiran met her eyes again. Her hood had fallen back enough that her face was no longer in shadow, and she for once did not rush to tug it back into place. “Are you certain you’re okay with this… us?” Her steel grey eyes scrutinized Fjorm’s face, as if the answer could be found in her expression. “Because I meant what I said; I will always be your friend and ally. So, if you’re not comfortable…”

Fjorm cupped her cheek and kissed her again. The situation was complex, and there were too many layers for her to sort through yet. Was she being selfish? Was she dishonoring her sister by being with a woman they both loved? Did it matter, now that Gunnthrá was dead? The solid knot of grief reformed in her throat. Was she as manipulative as Kiran said she was? What had she done to the summoner in their dreams that made her too ashamed to speak of it? Had she ever really known her sister? There were no easy answers to the questions. Regardless of who she may have been or what she might have done, Gunnthrá had been her sister, and her death hurt.

She buried her face in Kiran’s neck, clutching the front of her robes in one fist. Maybe the answers did not matter as much as she thought they did. No matter what they were, they led her to the same conclusion. She could not do this alone. “I need you, Kiran.” She whispered. “I can’t do this by myself.” She did not mean the war against Surtr and Múspell. That was part of it. But there was also the guilt, the shame, the grief, and the anger. Even if they were her emotions, they were too heavy a burden for her to carry alone.

“I am always here with you, little bird.” Kiran embraced her tightly and kissed the top of her head. Fjorm relaxed into the hug, allowing a content sigh to escape her. “The others will return soon.” She said, pulling back to stand up.

Reluctantly, the ice princess took a step back and watched as the summoner stood and straightened her robes. She was beautiful, stunning. Tall and lean with hair the color of fire and blood. She reminded her of a snow panther: slender and lithe with deceptively powerful muscles, coiled strength and explosive potential waiting to be unleashed. It made Fjorm’s mouth dry.

Flattening her hands, Kiran smoothed the wrinkles as best she could before finally securing the hood back in place, her face obscured by shadow once again. Fjorm made a sound of protest, something between a whine and whimper, that caused the summoner to laugh softly. She bent down to kiss the much smaller woman.

“No one can ever see you.” Fjorm murmured into the kiss, wanting to tug the taller woman back when she began to withdraw.

Cool, soft lips pressed against her forehead for only a moment before Kiran straightened. “It isn’t me under this hood.” She replied dryly.

Frowning, Fjorm began to ask what that was supposed to mean but the clatter of armor and scuff of boots announced the return of their companions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't say no to some encouragement... or feedback or... anything really.


	8. Snow Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This kiss was demanding. Kiran sucked Fjorm’s lower lip between her teeth and bit down, soothing it with a swipe of her tongue when she cried out. It was rough and exacting, as if she was determined to take her completely by kiss alone, and Fjorm wanted her to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone who has stuck with this story. Y'all are my heroes.

Of course, the sacred temple where the Rite of Frost had to be performed was not on the same side of the mountains as Snjárhof. Sharena was dismayed when the light of Breidablik guided them right back to the foot of the miserable mountain range they had crossed several days prior, forcing them to repeat the exhausting trudge through ice and snow and slick rock, to endure the constant battering of the ferocious mountain winds, to be confronted by an endless desert of white snow and black rock.

Usually, she traveled at the front of their party with Selkie, but she had awoken that morning with a headache that had yet to stop throbbing, and her eyes felt dry and gritty. At least they had made it down the east side of the mountains the previous evening before camping, so today the path was almost completely downhill. The uncharacteristically pleasant weather had allowed them to travel more quickly this time; the sky had been free of clouds, the sun had shone brilliantly down at them, and it almost felt warm.

But regardless of how brightly the sun beamed on her, regardless of the its warm smile on her nose and cheeks, she could not spur herself to move any more quickly. She was still ahead of Robin and Alfonse; the boys always carried up the rear of the group. But she was at least a dozen meters behind the summoner, princess, and foxkin.

Selkie had climbed the summoner as if she were a tree, perching on her shoulders. It was not unlike how a parent might carry an older child, and it was enough to coax a smile from her despite the relentless, pulsing ache of her head.

Kiran was selective with who she allowed close to her. But with those that she did, she could be utterly adorable. Selkie especially. It was endearing to watch Kiran’s stony stoicism melt away when faced with the kitsune’s infectious, innocent cheerfulness. She was not merely indulging the young girl either. There were times when she became downright playful, chuckling when she swung Selkie down from her shoulders to toss her into a snowdrift, laughing harder when the girl glared at her, scratching her affectionately behind the ears, extending her arm so that she could climb back up to her shoulders.

For a few precious moments, she shed the burden and tension of being the summoner. It was a rare, hidden glimpse into what Kiran might be as woman who was not the leader of warriors and heroes. In fact, those moments had been more frequent since they began their crossing of the mountains. She seemed lighter, less rigid than normal, which had an uplifting effect on all of them.

They had all witnessed unimaginable atrocity at Snjárhof: the rending and twisting of a once living person for the sadistic pleasure of a tyrant. The crackle of flame splitting living skin, the sickeningly pleasant scent of cooking meat. Shrieks of anguish. While Sharena knew that the sights and sounds and smells of Gunnthrá’s death would plague her memory for the rest her life, it could not measure against the agony of the ice princess. If that had been Alfonse—She cut off the thought before it became an image in her mind.

Their journey into Nifl had been arduous. They had all seen such horror and cruelty. But for a few days at least, ever since they began their ascent up the mountain, it was if the war and Múspell were a distant thing.

It was puzzling to think about. Kiran was not quite cheerful, but she was less stern, more at ease. She was almost as quiet as she always was, but she felt less aloof. Instead of talking plans and strategies by the evening fire, she listened to the rest of the party’s relaxed banter, even chiming in with a story of her own.

The light was fading, but it could not yet be afternoon. Sharena could still make out the rest of her friends ahead of her, but it was if a shadow had covered them. She squinted at the sky to search for the clouds that must have covered the sun, but there were none. Blinking against the harsh sunlight, she enjoyed the brief respite of darkness.

Until she realized that she had opened her eyes and darkness still surrounded her.

Blinking again, she opened her eyes to blackness. She blinked furiously, fear a rising bubble in her chest. She stumbled forward, not able to see what she had tripped on, if anything. “Alfonse!” She instinctively cried out for her brother.

Almost immediately, he was beside her. Trying to stand, she only stumbled again, disoriented. She could not tell which direction was forward, where she had been headed before she stumbled.

“What is it, sister?” She turned towards her brother’s voice, relaxing when she felt his hands steadying her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

“I can’t see. I can’t see anything.”

“What do you mean, you can’t see?”

“I can’t see, Alfonse!” She snapped. “My eyes are open, but I see nothing.”

The crunch of snow signaled the arrival of the others. Someone knelt in the snow beside her. “What is it?” The steadiness of the summoner’s voice eased some of her anxiety. If anyone knew what to do, Kiran would. She always knew what to do. She always had the answers. She would be able to fix whatever was wrong with her.

“She says she can’t see?” Alfonse sounded confused.

Strong, calloused hands, Kiran’s hands, turned her face. Gently, she pulled the eyelid of her right eye back with her thumb, then her left. Her touch was tender, reassuring. Sharena felt the movement, but she still saw nothing.

“Kiran, what is it? What’s wrong with me?” Sharena was unable to hide the quaver in her voice, but at least she was able to suppress the panic rising up in her chest from becoming hysterical. “What is it?”

There was a pause as the summoner considered. “Snow blindness?”

Fjorm’s voice agreed. “I think so.”

“I’m blind?” She couldn’t understand how calm the other two women were being. They might as well have been observing she had a cold or a skinned knee, not a debilitating injury that rendered her completely useless as a warrior. What was she supposed to do without her sight? Stay behind in Volksungr while the rest of the Order left to fight? Would they even let her stay at Volksungr? Would they send her back to the royal castle?

The summoner’s hands rested on either side of her neck. “No, Sharena.” Her voice was so soft and gentle, she was certain that Kiran must be lying to her. “Well, yes, but it is only temporary. The snow reflects the sun, and it can burn your eyes. I’m sorry, this is my fault, it did not occur to me to consider it a possibility. Think of it like sunburn for your eyes. It will go away in a few days.”

“Are you sure?” Sharena worried her lower lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling.

“Absolutely.” Fjorm spoke, her small hand coming to rest on her upper back as if to reassure her. “And the fault should lie with me. I am from Nifl; I better than anyone should be aware of the danger of snow blindness.”

“She’ll be okay?” Alfonse insisted, nervousness making his voice higher than normal.

“She will be fine, Alfonse. I give you my word.”

“She needs to rest. Indoors, away from the sun.”

“Couldn’t we just cover her eyes?”

Reflexively, Sharena turned her face towards each speaker, her frustration mounting as her head whipped from side to side. “She is right here! Don’t talk about me like I’m a child or like I’m too helpless to participate in a discussion about my own well-being.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, Sharena.” Kiran spoke. “The best thing to do is to get you inside some place you can rest. A day or two, and your vision should return.” She squeezed her shoulder but did not withdraw it. “Fjorm, do you know of any place nearby we may be able to find shelter, real shelter?”

The snow crunched under boots and the quiet seemed to last forever. “There is a village. If Surtr has not burned it. It is relatively remote, and we are still fairly high in the mountains so there is a good chance it still stands. But it will take us north, off course.”

An arm snaked under her legs and wrapped around her shoulders, lifting her. Reflexively, Sharena swatted at whoever held her, hand connecting with what she could only assume was Kiran’s hooded head. “What are you doing?”

“Unless you want to blindly tumble down the mountain, I am carrying you.” The summoner responded tightly, but she knew better. If she was really irritated, her voice would have been low and measured.

“Not like a baby, you’re not.” She might be blind, but Sharena still had her dignity.

“Fine.” An arm encircled her waist until she steadied on solid ground again. “Selkie, take her spear. You and Fjorm lead the way. Sharena.” The summoner held her hand, guiding it to her shoulder as she crouched. “Hop on.”

“None of you better say a word about this to anyone in the Order.” Sharena warned, turning her head from side to side, unsure where everyone was standing. Reluctantly, she looped her arms around Kiran’s shoulders and allowed herself to be lifted and felt her face flush. She felt ridiculous clinging to the summoner’s back. “You really need to make sure our party has a few bigger heroes so you’re not always carrying everyone.” She mumbled into summoner’s hood.

“Right,” The summoner snorted dubiously. “Next time, I’ll bring Duma.”

* * *

The forest had turned to golden fire as the sun sank lower in the sky, the waning rays reflecting off the pristine surface of the snow. They had traveled more than half a day, taking few breaks at Fjorm’s direction. It was possible for them to reach the village by nightfall if they hurried, and Kiran was eager to get the Askran princess to a safe place where she could rest and heal.

Fjorm and Selkie lead the way through the forest, with the princess pausing periodically to survey her surroundings, presumably to ensure they were headed in the correct direction. She could hear their voices, could not quite discern the words between the two. At one point, the princess seemed to be giving the younger girl instructions on how she held Sharena’s spear. Fjorm would swing or jab Leiptr, and Selkie would clumsily attempt to imitate the movement with her borrowed weapon.

The boys traveled behind them, as usual. It was good for them to be alone, to be themselves without apprehension of discovery. Whenever the Order had a longer mission, she always tried to send Alfonse and Robin together, an excuse for the couple to be alone without fear of discovery. She knew the relationships of royal heirs were as much political as they were romantic, but she hated that the prince felt he had to conceal the person who made him happy.

“Kiran?”

The princess had not stirred in a long time, her head resting on Kiran’s shoulder, arms loosely wrapped around her neck. She had assumed the girl was sleeping. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry that I am holding us back from the mission.” Her voice was steady and strong, a subordinate apologizing to her commander, accepting responsibility for failure. It was a habit she had picked up from Anna, addressing her in a formal matter whenever it related to a mission or Order business, and Kiran hated it.

“I—” Realizing that her hood probably made it difficult for Sharena to hear her, Kiran pulled it back. “You are not holding us back, Sharena. It is my fault; I should have taken more precautions, warned you of the danger, been more careful.”

“But I’m holding us back from completing the Rite of Frost!” She lifted her head from her shoulder. “What if—”

“No.” She shook her head, cutting her off, knowing that she was going to ask what if more people died because of their delay? What if two days made the difference between victory and defeat for Nifl? “You cannot lose yourself to questions that do not have answers. It clouds your mind from what needs to be done.”

The girl’s arms tightened around her neck. “So, are you saying that there is no risk to our mission by stopping because… because I’m hurt?” She asked skeptically, tension shaving years off her voice.

Kiran sighed and shifted the weight on her back. Sharena had wrapped her legs around her waist, and she had looped her arms under her knees to support her. “No, I am saying it is worth the risk.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Sharena exclaimed. “How could you ever think that?”

Wincing, Kiran turned her head. “No, but yell in my ear again, and I will toss you into the next snowdrift. Tell me what the Order fights for.”

“Well,” She paused, contemplating the question. “To protect others, to defend others from oppression, to do what is right and just. Heroes can’t just stand by while others suffer. It is our duty to help. People like Surtr just want power, and they don’t care who they hurt to get it. Somebody has to fight them.”

“Right,” Kiran nodded. “But there is something even more important than all of those things.”

“What is more important than justice and freedom from oppression and fear?” Using her thighs as leverage, she pushed up as if to peer over her shoulder at her. “Do you have altitude sickness?”

“If I had altitude sickness, I would have been symptomatic long before now.” If Kiran had children in her previous life, she was certain they had not been teenagers or young adults. No amount of amnesia would be able to erase how frustrating they could be. “Listen to me. The only thing more important than all those things is love. Loving bonds. If we forsake those that we love to fight oppression or tyranny or whatever, then what is the point? We have lost the thing worth fighting for. The ends do not justify the means.”

Sharena sank back against her, absorbing what she had been told. Ahead of her, Fjorm and Selkie turned a blind curve in the path and disappeared from sight. The crunch of snow under her boots was the only sound for a long time. “Is that why you fight?”

“It is the only reason I fight.” Kiran admitted. Askr, Nifl, Embla… the kingdoms meant very little to her. The only personal stake she had in any of them were the heroes she had come to love in her short time in this world. She agreed that the Order’s cause was noble and worthy, but on a personal level, what mattered more were the people in her life, the heroes she had become responsible for. “If I ever have to choose, a million times I would choose you, Selkie, Fjorm, Robin, or even that goofy brother of yours.”

The Askran princess rested her head on her shoulder again, arms tightening around her neck, holding her tightly. This time, though it took Kiran a minute to realize it, Sharena was hugging her. “I love you too, Kiran.” She lifted her head, voice suddenly chipper. “So, you’d _choose_ Fjorm too?” She asked slyly.

Smirking, Kiran pulled her hood back up as she turned the corner and saw the trees opening into a small settlement and the other two women waiting for them. “I already have.”

* * *

The attic’s trap door shut closed behind the summoner with a soft thud that seemed deafening in the silence.

It had been a relief to find the small village intact, and even more fortuitous that it had a tavern with enough room for them all to bunk for the night. Fjorm had made the arrangements with the tavernkeeper, who recognized her of course. Robin and Alfonse would share a room in the cellar. At first, it appeared as though the four women would have to share a room, but after some thought and scratching of his beard, the tavernkeeper had offered them the attic loft in addition to his last room.

Kiran had seen the two girls to their room, presumably to make sure Sharena was comfortable and taken care of. Fjorm had climbed the ladder into the attic. It was not much of a room, which is probably why the innkeeper had been reluctant to offer it to them, unfitting for Nifl royalty. But it had a bed and a small hearth, which was much more comfort than they had experienced for months.

It wasn’t until she kicked off her boots and sat on the bed that she truly realized that there was only _one_ bed. One bed they would share. Which was not a problem. They had been sleeping bundled close to one another for much longer than they had admitted their feelings for one another. It was that they’d be sharing it without anyone else present. Alone.

It had been weeks since they had been alone together. Truly alone. Without one or all the others out of earshot but within view. Without the knowledge that any moment they would be interrupted by the others. Without only an illusion of privacy. They were not hiding, but it was to absolutely no one’s surprise that Kiran was reservedly affectionate.

The kisses they had shared had been stolen during brief moments of solitude. Their embraces had been brief. Then there were the casual touches, fingertips grazing the back of a hand or the graze of lips over a brow as they spent their nights the same way that they had for several weeks, cuddled and piled together with their comrades in a single tent. And while those moments had been precious, they had been fleeting.

This was their first time together in true privacy, without fear of interruption and relatively free of fear of attack. Not only were they alone, but their surroundings were painfully normal. The floor under their feet was made of wooden planks polished smooth instead of frozen earth or hard-packed snow. The wind was blocked by actual walls instead of the thin canvas of a tent or the bleak stone of a cave or abandoned temple. There was a proper bed, albeit not a grand one, rather than a pallet on the cold ground. A small fire smoldered in the hearth. It wasn’t much, but after weeks of being battered by ice and wind, it made the room almost stifling.

Fjorm sat on the edge of the bed and allowed her eyes to close. If she let her mind detach, she could almost dream herself back to normalcy. The last night she had spent with the cavalry captain was spent in a tavern loft not unlike this one. They had shared a bottle of red wine imported from one of the southern kingdoms to honor the occasion. It had been just enough to make both women flushed and pleasantly heady without being drunk.

Jytte had been the typical Nifl captain: strong, stoic, forceful. But underneath the armor of discipline, she was good-natured with a playful sense of humor. Her lopsided grin was contagious, and she delighted in teasing Fjorm. Their last night together had only been their third night together, and Jytte had brought the wine because the army of Múspell was less than a day’s march from the capital. It was a wordless acknowledgment that it was likely not only their last night together, but their last night at all. They spent it in a shifting knot of sweat and bare skin, defying the sunrise.

“Fjorm?” The wooden floor planks creaked irritably as Kiran dropped into a crouch in front of her, hands coming to rest on her knees. When she opened her eyes, the summoner’s lips were pressed together in a thin, concerned line. “Are you alright?”

She forced a faint smile and spread her legs to tug the other woman in between them, closer so that she could kiss her. “I’m fine. It’s just… The last time I was in a room like this, it was the night before the Múspell army attacked our capital.”

She looked around the room, as if confused by their surroundings. “Why were you in a tavern… oh.” Kiran’s lips pressed together again, this time suppressing a smile and failing, and a soft chuckle escaped her. “Princess Fjorm, seducing your way across Nifl?” She teased.

Shoving the summoner’s shoulder playfully, she leaned forward and kissed her briefly. “No! Not hardly.” She dropped her eyes to her lap as Kiran placed her hands on her thighs. They were so large in comparison, covering more than half her thigh, although not quite big enough to wrap around her upper leg. “What about you, have you… since… do you remember?”

“Yes.”

Surprised, her gaze snapped up to Kiran’s face. “Who?” It was not that she was surprised that someone slept with Kiran. She would be damned if half the heroes in the Order would not line up for the opportunity to be with the Summoner. No, she was surprised that Kiran would let anyone close enough, trusted anyone enough to be intimate with them.

“Curious much? I’ll tell you if you tell me.” At Fjorm’s nod, she pulled her hood back before setting her hands back on the other woman’s thighs, her thumbs stroking gently.

“Her name was Jytte.” Fjorm answered. Long waves of red tumbled down the summoner’s shoulders, and she was transfixed. It was the first time Kiran had removed her hood unprompted, without being asked or urged to. She had done so for her, so that she could look upon the face of the woman she had fallen in love with. As if it were a reflex she had no control over, Fjorm plunged her fingers into her hair, raking her fingertips over her scalp.

Like she had in the snow a few months ago, the summoner closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Her lips parted, her throat exposed. Fjorm rubbed slow circles at her temples, coaxing a low hum of a moan from her. The sound drove a white-hot spike of arousal straight through her groin. She licked suddenly dry lips, determined to find out what other sounds of pleasure she could tease from her.

There was an unhurried awareness between them, the knowledge that this rare opportunity of alone time was a fluke. It was unlikely to happen again, if it did at all. The want to take advantage of it was mutual, but neither rushed. It was a careful enjoyment of the closeness, almost savoring the opportunity to draw out the anticipation.

The morning after they admitted their feelings to one another, Kiran had knelt in front of her while she fastened the princess’s cloak under her chin. She had done it before, dozens of times probably. It had become a sort of ritual for them, but in the light of the previous night’s confessions, it had felt different. She had not been able to see her eyes because of the damned hood, but she knew they were fixed on her, as if she were the sole thing in the world worth focusing on.

It had caused her breaths to come quicker, more shallowly. The simple act of fastening her cloak had become unbearably intimate. It made her ache with want, with need, to be closer, to feel more of the summoner, to be wrapped in her, surrounded by her. It was impossible for two bodies to become one, but she had wanted to try. But Kiran had stood and pulled away, but Fjorm was certain she intentionally allowed her knuckles to graze her cheek as she withdrew her hands.

“Were they your partner?” Kiran asked gently, as if afraid the question might hurt her.

The question dragged her reluctantly back to the present. “No, she was a captain in the Nifl cavalry. We had only been seeing each other a few short weeks before the war. Maybe if…” Maybe if an archer had not been so proficient at his trade. Maybe if there had never been a war at all. Maybe if she were still just a younger princess of a peaceful ice kingdom and Jytte a living captain of a cavalry company…

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Kiran had opened her eyes and leaned forward to plant a soft, warm kiss against Fjorm’s brow. The gesture was both kind and affectionate, an act of both sympathy and adoration, and she leaned into the kiss, feeling as though she could melt. The “maybes” settled into a distant ache.

“Thank you,” She said quietly once the other woman pulled back and then forced a smile. “Your turn.”

“Corrin and I have sought one another’s company over the years. And I am not sure if you’ve met them, but Elincia and Idunn.” Kiran listed the women matter-of-factly, as if she were ticking off names on a battle roster. There was no emotion in her voice or her expression, and Fjorm realized that it was oddly harder to read the summoner now than it was when her hood was up and half her face obscured.

“Are you sure I am dragon enough for you?” Fjorm could not resist teasing. Of course, she knew Corrin. She had not met Elincia, but she had met Idunn in passing and found her as reserved as Kiran. It was amusing that at least two of the three names she had mentioned were manaketes.

“What?” Kiran’s expression was uncomprehending.

“Do you have a thing for dragons? Corrin, Idunn…”

“Gods, no!” She shook her head quickly and a lock of hair fell into her eyes. Fjorm tucked it behind her ear for her. “Coincidence, nothing more. Most of the dragons are children. I don’t care if they are thousands of years old, they have the bodies of children. Like somehow it is okay to nail a nine-year-old because they’re _really_ a thousand-year-old dragon.” She shook her head vehemently again. “You don’t have to be a dragon to be more than enough for me, Fjorm.”

Ducking her head, she felt her cheeks pinken. “What happened with the others?”

“Nothing, we were never anything other than friends seeking a night of pleasure.” She lifted Fjorm’s chin with her fingertips. “It is different with you.”

“So, you have no wish for a night of pleasure with me?” The princess smirked.

“You’re being a brat.” There was a current of… something in the statement that immediately caused her pulse to quicken. Kiran was clearly amused, but there was something else… something predatory almost. It was the same confusion she experienced whenever the summoner’s voice sharpened, whenever she chided her or said her name in _that_ tone. It was the same puzzling thrill she experienced whenever she remembered Kiran’s unspoken threat. _Stop, or so help me…_ So, help her what? What would she do? And why did she want to find out?

Fjorm could feel the heat of Kiran’s palms through the fabric of her trousers, a heat that burned its memory into her thighs and crept up to pool between her legs. “Then do something about it.” She met Kiran’s eyes, and held her gaze as it darkened, hoping she would accept the challenge.

One of the summoner’s hands left her thigh, fingers trailing along her side, coming to rest on her neck and play with the short hairs at the base of her skull. “Is that what you want?” Kiran’s voice was almost husky, quiet but not a whisper. She never broke eye contact, and Fjorm leaned her head back, into her touch and nodded. “I need you to say it.”

“It’s what I want.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before Kiran’s hand fisted in her hair, jerking her head back just hard enough to demonstrate control without being painful. The gasp that escaped Fjorm’s parted lips was swallowed as Kiran rose up and crushed their lips together. It was a hungry, possessive kiss that was clear in its intent to claim the smaller woman. Their first kiss and subsequent kisses had been gentle. A few times they had grown passionate, but they had been patient and communicated shared love and affection.

This kiss was demanding. Kiran sucked Fjorm’s lower lip between her teeth and bit down, soothing it with a swipe of her tongue when she cried out. It was rough and exacting, as if she was determined to take her completely by kiss alone, and Fjorm wanted her to try. She grasped the front of her robes, pulling her closer which elicited a growl from Kiran’s throat. The fingers loosened in her hair and slid up her thigh to grip her hips, and still the kiss did not break.

This kiss was adoration sang with nips of her teeth and swipes of her tongue, but it was also ownership, a clear declaration that she was _hers_. Fjorm practically melted into the kiss, into Kiran, her whole body warm, not just with arousal. This kiss was one of loving possessiveness, controlling but not domineering, a promise of protection and guidance, of focus and dedication, of gratitude. Kiran had claimed her with that kiss, and Fjorm had never felt more loved.

She reluctantly broke away from the kiss to gasp, starved for breath, so the summoner dropped her lips to her chin, kissing a trail along her jawline to her ear before taking her earlobe gently between her teeth and sucked. Fjorm’s gasp turned into a pant, and her back arched.

“Tell me,” Kiran breathed against her ear, her tongue flicking over the sensitive skin she had just bitten. “How do I bring you pleasure, Fjorm?”

“I—” The words caught in her throat as the hands gripping her hips tightened and she was lifted. Kiran laid her on her back before climbing on top of her. She propped herself on her forearms to keep from crushing the smaller woman with her full weight, her long hair tumbling like a curtain around her face. Fjorm buried her fingers in Kiran’s hair again, swearing to herself she would never tire of running her fingers through those soft waves of crimson. “You’re… you’re off to a good start.” She said when she finally found her voice.

“If I do anything you don’t like, just say “red,” and everything stops.” The summoner planted a soft kiss on her nose. “I want to make you feel good.”

“I want to do the same for you.” Fjorm insisted, lifting her head to kiss her chin.

“Oh,” Kiran grinned wolfishly and slipped her thigh between Fjorm’s legs. “I think you will.” A calculated roll of her hips applied brief pressure between both women’s legs, and Fjorm’s moan joined Kiran’s groan.

The moment of pleasure was too brief, and Fjorm urgently reached for the other woman’s hips, to pull her back, to continue to grind against her, but Kiran stopped her by straddling her hips. She watched as the summoner unfastened her robe and discarded it to the floor. When she pulled her tunic over her head, she was helpless to do anything but stare. She’d seen her naked before, in the springs, but she had concentrated so hard on not looking…

Her arms reached over her head, pulling the fabric up to reveal the muscles of her stomach stretched taut, torso twisting. The swell of her breasts was full, larger than her ill-fitting tunic and baggy robe showed. Her skin was the same even olive, marred by the white of old scars and pale pink of the more recent. Tentatively, Fjorm traced a long scar under her left breast with her fingertips. It began just below her sternum, passed under the curve of her breast, and terminated between her ribs just below her armpit.

Kiran shivered under her touch and let the tunic fall away to join her robe. Fjorm took the shudder as encouragement and sat up as best she was able with her lower body pinned beneath the other woman. She frowned and maybe even pouted when her wrists were captured in a steel grip before she could touch bare skin.

“Hold them there.” Kiran held her hands above her head before releasing them, and Fjorm did pout then, but obeyed. “How many times do I have to tell you that petulance doesn’t suit you, little bird?” She said with a smirk, slender fingers making swift work of the lacing at the neck of her tunic.

“I have no doubt at least a few more.” She breathed, clenching her fists above her head while Kiran slowly, deliberately slipped her fingers under the hem of her tunic and tugged up. “Kiran…” The name escaped her lips as a whine, and her cheeks burned.

“Hmm?” She stopped lifting her tunic just below her breasts, lips quirking in a smug smile of feigned ignorance.

“Please,” Summoning all her self-control to steady her voice, she tried to exude calm and patience, to not let the other woman know she was slowly eroding her will.

Kiran inched the tunic a little higher. The open air hit her now-exposed breasts, nipples stiffening, and causing Fjorm to inhale sharply. “Please what, girl?” She asked sweetly.

She squirmed and arched her back, trying to push her body closer to her hands. “Gods,” She ached in frustration, unable to secure contact with Kiran’s touch. She could feel the heat of her body, but nothing else, and it was maddening. Exasperation cultivated a groan that escaped her, and she twisted, rolled her hips, trying to encourage the other woman to no avail. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still a brat.” The tunic was lifted just a fraction higher, and Kiran leaned in closer, her breath felt on Fjorm’s cheek, and her hair tickling her neck. She was so close.

“Well, you have _yet_ to do anything about that.” Fjorm shot back, exasperated. It had not occurred to her to drop her hands from above her head, to disobey the command she had been given.

“No?” It was somewhere between a whisper and a growl, and the tunic she had been desperate for the summoner to remove was suddenly pulled over her head, but not off, leaving her arms trapped in the sleeves. Fingers splayed on her back and behind her head, she half-pushed, half-lowered the smaller woman to lay back on the bed. Even forceful, she was so careful with her. “Just wait.”

Then, with hardly any effort at all, Kiran flipped her onto her stomach. Hands still captured above her head by her own infernal tunic, she gripped the frame of the bed above her head. The bed creaked, the mattress shifting, and Fjorm tried to turn her head to see what the other woman was doing but could not crane her neck enough. A rustle and thump, the bed creaked again, and the summoner was over her again. This time, fingers slipped under the waist of her trousers and yanked, stripping her of the rest of her clothing.

Kiran was on top of her, breasts pressed into her back. Hands slid along her arms, pushing the tunic up until she was able to free Fjorm completely from the last garment. “If you are good for me,” Kiran said, kissing the back of her neck, then her shoulder. “Maybe I will let you make me cum.” Without warning, she sunk her teeth into her shoulder, and Fjorm cried out. The sting of sharp teeth into her flesh was painful, sending a shock of arousal through her so powerful that her other senses seemed to fail.

The wetness that had been steadily gathering between her legs began to run down her inner thighs, cooling. Fjorm was not aware if her eyes were open, but if they were, she could not see anything. She was helpless to do anything but feel.

Teeth marked her again, this time on her opposite shoulder, leaving her in a dizzying haze of arousal so intense that she began to crave the delightful sting of teeth marking her too-sensitive flesh. Lips replaced teeth. Hands explored, roaming, both gentle and firm, caressing her ribs and clutching her hips. A shift and a gentle tug encouraged Fjorm to pull her knees under her body, lifting her hips until her weight was on her knees and elbows. The position allowed greater access to the entirety of her body, and Kiran was devoted to taking advantage of every inch of her. She became utterly lost to the song of Kiran’s touch.

Hands cupped her breasts, nipples rolled between fingers, pinched. Lips burned a gentle trail down her neck and spine. The dichotomy of tender and rough, of loving and demanding, of pain and pleasure, made her body hypersensitive, as if every touch were amplified a thousand-fold. Her whole body was alive with fire, as if liquid gold pumped through her veins. Her hair matted to her brow and neck with sweat, and Kiran’s body was slick against hers.

Vaguely, she was aware of the sounds the summoner was drawing from her, moans and pants, desperate and needy, high-pitched keens when she was bitten or pinched, whimpers when mouth or teeth were withdrawn. She was far from inexperienced, but every time previous seemed bland in comparison to this. Sex had always been enjoyable but almost perfunctory, routine. This was anything but.

Everything was more vivid, even with her eyes closed. Every touch, every graze of Kiran’s fingers or lips burned their imprint into her skin, and she felt the smoldering ghost of her touch for seconds after she withdrew. The pressure of need built within her to an unbearable level as Kiran coaxed her higher, further than she believed her body capable of. It was torture, and Fjorm did not know how she would survive it, but she loved it.

Finally, she managed to work her tongue into words. “Kiran, please…”

Kiran was on top of her, her larger body draped around her, her arm wrapping around Fjorm’s hips, hand dipping between her legs. She paused before slowly, slipping a finger through the wetness and moaned, low and hard, the sound of it vibrating in her chest against Fjorm’s back. “Gods, girl.” There was a quaver to her voice, that Fjorm could not help feeling a thrill of triumph in.

“Please, please, Kiran,” The triumph was short-lived as the need built unbearably, her lover’s so close to providing relief to the precious ache but not. “Please. Fuck…”

“Such a filthy word from such a pretty mouth,” Kiran’s voice was husky, thick with her own arousal. Hands gripped her hips, again moving her where she wanted her, this time turning her to lay on her back, so they faced one another. Kiran was again on top of her and shifted to accommodate slipping a hand between their legs. A finger circled her clit, but provided no pressure before she entered her, barely, a single finger inserted only to the first knuckle. Its presence was maddening, so close but not nearly enough.

Fjorm felt as if the world was crumbling away from her, and her breath came in ragged sobs of frustrated arousal. "Please…" She had never known arousal could be this intense, that need could be so overwhelming. It was as if she had waited years for this touch, and now she was drawing it out, torturing her. She opened her eyes to find the steel of Kiran’s gaze on her face. Simultaneously, their eyes locked, and Kiran entered her.

Without giving her a chance to adjust to the sudden change, Kiran thrust into her again. Her opposite hand fisted in the hair at the top of her head as she stole another searing kiss from her, drinking in Fjorm’s moans and cries.

“You’re being such a good girl for me,” Kiran murmured against her lips, and Fjorm’s body responded of its own volition at the praise, driving herself down on her lover's hand, hard, pressing her clit against the palm and grinding. “What a good girl,” She must have realized the effect her words had on her because she dropped her lips to her ear and began to whisper praise and endearments and encouragement. “You’re doing so good for me, girl… Ride my hand, I want you to cum for me, sweet girl.”

The world exploded in a roar of blood in her ears. Already precariously close to the edge from the endless teasing and touches, the gentle command was impossible to disobey. She came hard, vaguely aware of the almost-scream of ecstasy torn from her by the climax. Her body quaked with release, and she ground herself against Kiran’s hand, and as the first wave gradually subsided, she felt herself being swept away by another. Tears leaked unbidden from her eyes, while her body was consumed with fire, with irresistible heat as her need flared and burned.

As the climax faded to a dull throb, her body still hummed with pleasure. She shivered despite the warmth. Some vague part of her registered as Kiran pulled out of her, rolled off her to lie next to her, but all she could feel was the constant tremor of her body as she recovered from the multiple orgasms. Kiran gathered her in her arms, pulling her close so that her head rested on her chest, stroked her hair until her breath evened and her body relaxed.

Fjorm lay listening to the steady, powerful thrum of the summoner’s heart beneath her ear as the world slowly returned to focus. It was as though her limbs were weighted with stones, and she felt it was impossible to move. Luckily there was no urgency to. With Kiran’s fingers running through her hair and the warmth of her body pressed against her, it would be so easy to fall blissfully asleep listening to the heartbeat of her lover. But she did not want to sleep, not yet.

Propping herself up on an elbow, she lifted herself to look at the other woman, who canted her head, patiently waiting for her to speak first. “I…” She blushed and placed a hand over Kiran’s bare chest, over her heart. She suddenly felt foolishly shy and dropped her eyes to where her hand rested. “Was… was I good enough for you to let me make you cum?”

Kiran blinked, seemingly surprised by the question, then laughed softly. “See,” She cupped her cheek, running her thumb along her lower lip. “Not so much of a brat now, are you?” She teased.

Fjorm’s response was to dip her chin and part her lips, taking her thumb into her mouth and sucking. She watched the other woman as her eyes widened and a gasp escaped her as her tongue swirled around the digit. Kiran’s chest heaved, her breath becoming ragged as she flicked the tip of her tongue over the pad of her thumb. When she finally opened her mouth and released the finger, she lifted her eyes.

Darkened curls clung to her brow and neck with sweat, and her eyes were half-lidded with desire. She was stunningly beautiful, Fjorm could not help but think. This is who she was. Not the summoner. This was who Kiran was. Slowly, she slid down the length of the tall woman’s body, lowering herself in between her thighs, watching her, giving her the opportunity to stop her if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

Tentatively, she lowered her face, grinning as she felt the muscles of Kiran’s thighs tense under her hands. Settling lower, she snaked her arms around her legs so that her thighs rested on her shoulders. Kiran was already so wet, there was no need to draw it out, but she could not resist exhaling on the slickness. Her reward was immediate: a strangled, startled moan, a firm hand fisting in her hair, and a warning, half-growled. “ _Girl_ —”

Fjorm did not let her finish and swiped the flat of her tongue against her clit which was hard and swollen. Her hips bucked against her mouth, and she moaned again, this time louder. With another slow lick, she set a rhythmic pace with her tongue, not too quickly because she could tell that she was already close, and Fjorm wanted her to feel as much pleasure for as long as she could. The hand fisting in her hair, holding her close caused her own arousal to mount again.

It did not take long for Kiran’s hips to begin rocking harder until she was practically riding her, and Fjorm kept pace with her, licking and sucking to the pace she set, craving each loud cry and moan that spilled from her lover’s lips. It was bliss, even if she could not see her face, to have Kiran so undone underneath her tongue and hands, to feel her let go completely and trust Fjorm to hold her.

It was exhilarating to have the quiet, reserved summoner so expressive, so unfettered because of what she was doing. To feel such strong, solid muscles quake with every swirl and swipe of her tongue. To have her buck and writhe and take her pleasure from Fjorm’s mouth. To have her arousal coat her face, leave her messy with it. To have her heaving and gasping, moaning and keening so loud that surely someone’s sleep was disturbed.

When the roll of her hips became more frantic, she extricated one of her arms and shifted to slip two fingers into her lover, curling them towards her. The effect was immediate, and Kiran arched off the bed, almost sitting up, thighs clamping down hard on either side of her head. Her inner walls clenched around her fingers as she rode out her pleasure against her mouth, shuddering as she came.

When her muscles stopped tensing and releasing and thighs released her form the locked grip on her head, Fjorm began to slow her ministrations. Kiran’s fingers tightened in her hair. “Gods, fuck… don’t stop.”

So, she didn’t.

* * *

It was unclear how much time had passed. It was likely close to dawn, the part of the night that Fjorm always found eerily still.

Fjorm lay on her back and Kiran on her side beside her, both exhausted and thoroughly sated yet reluctant to give into sleep just yet. Not for the first time, she marveled at how familiar it felt to have the summoner naked beside her, to clutch her hand against her chest. As if it were a ritual that they had repeated countless times before, as if this was how they had always been.

It was easy to forget everything outside of this room, at least for a few hours. At least until dawn came. At least until Sharena’s eyes had healed. Until they had to follow the light of Breidablik again. The light that would lead them back to the war.

The summoner must have sensed her disquiet and pulled her closer. “You are beautiful, my girl.” Kiran murmured, nuzzling into the side of her face and kissing her cheek. Fjorm could feel her lips smiling against the skin of her cheek.

The back of her eyes unexpectedly stung, and Fjorm turned the larger hand over in between her own, studying the long, elegant fingers and the delicate lattice of very old white scars that adorned her knuckles. “Your girl…” She whispered. “Am I your girl, Kiran?”

The larger woman sobered and lifted her head to gaze down at her. “Of course! I mean…” She paused and dropped her lips to her forehead before continuing. “As long as you want to be.”

Fjorm nodded, her eyes filling with tears unexpectedly. Kiran had called her “girl” almost from the beginning. It had never sounded condescending or patronizing. The way she said it had always sounded familiar, affectionate. But partnered with the word “my,” it gave the address a crushing weight that forced all the air from her lungs. The sensation was so intense it felt tangible, as if someone were sitting on her chest. As if an invisible hand had reached into her chest and wrapped warm fingers around her heart and squeezed.

All throughout her life, she had never felt like she did not belong. In truth, it never occurred to her to consider it. She had a definite place. Her family loved her, and she loved them. She had a happy childhood learning all the necessities a princess might need to know but gravitated toward the martial aspects of leadership. The call of the lance sang to her from a young age, and she had trained alongside her brother and his peers, determined to be as fine a warrior as he was, to serve her people as soldier, a protector. There was never any question who she was and what her place was. As a princess, as any heir of Nifl, she was expected to serve her kingdom and its people. She never questioned her place in the world.

Even when Múspell invaded and her mother killed, she knew as long as there was a breath in her body she would fight for her kingdom. Every step she had taken had centered around this core of her identity, a servant of her kingdom.

Such a simple word: _my_. Yet, it struck a chord so deep within her that when she remembered to breathe her exhale became a sob. It was not that she never felt like she belonged, but there was a stark difference between belonging by rite of birth and being chosen. It was not who she was born to be, a position that could not be inherited, a role that was not hers by blood or duty or obligation, but because she was chosen. Kiran had chosen her.

Her title and birth were irrelevant because the summoner chose her as an individual, as simply Fjorm, as her little bird. She had never known how safe it felt to be chosen, how beloved. There was such security in belonging to someone, with someone. Nothing had ever felt so correct to her. Nifl would always be her homeland, and she would always be its loyal servant. But now that she had Kiran, that she had chosen her, she felt she was home.

The realization was so abrupt, the magnitude of emotion overwhelmed her, and silent tears slipped past her eyelashes and splashed soundlessly onto the pillow under her head. She was not born to it, she was not entitled to it, and that meant it could be taken away. It underscored how desperately she wanted, needed to belong to her. Kiran had chosen her and given her that belonging, given her the security and certainty of being more than loved, of being cherished, of being _home_.

The summoner’s brow creased in lines of worry, the shadow of a frown, and she cupped her cheek swiping away a tear with the pad of her thumb. “Fjorm, what’s wrong?”

“I w-want to be your-yours,” The choked tears caused her to stammer. “I’m sorry, I don’t…” She furiously wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The tears were not spurred by fear or sadness, but neither could she explain them. It was both fierce yearning and calming relief, as if a need vital for her survival she never even knew she had had been met. Salvation when she had no right to expect it. “I just—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, not to me.” Kiran lowered herself next to Fjorm, sliding along next to her, naked skin pressed to her side, arm tightening around her bare stomach. “I cannot promise you everything will be okay, but however it is, I will be with you, always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to thank everyone that has commented. Y'all are the reason I carve out the time to write. It really does mean the world to me, so thank you. :-) I'll try not to keep you waiting for the next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Mistakes are mine so I apologize for any cock-ups. Thanks for reading. :-)


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